


A Song of Ash and Sky

by AllGirlsArePrincesses



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Cursed Season 2, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Just in case they don't renew it I GOT YOU GUYS, Mild Blood, Near Death Experiences, Nimulot - Freeform, Past Child Abuse, Post-Season/Series 01, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, TV Canon, saved by love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 78,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllGirlsArePrincesses/pseuds/AllGirlsArePrincesses
Summary: Starting right after the ending of Season 1, we follow Nimue as she finds a new purpose now that her promise to her mother is fulfilled. She will need allies, but whom can she really trust with her life, or her heart?
Relationships: Arthur/Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 637
Kudos: 683





	1. The Bride

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my very first chapter of my very first fic.... I don't know what I'm doing, so please be kind! I have a vague idea of where I'm going with this but honestly it's likely to meander between plotty-plot and indulgent fluff. Mostly just here to scratch the Nimulot itch until we (hopefully) get a Season 2!

The river wrapped the young woman in its dark embrace as she slipped into the water, a faint plume of red rising from her breast. After the initial flurry of bubbles, the water calmed and a delicate pattern of reflections played across the sinking girl’s face. She seemed at home in the deepening green, no hint of a struggle as she surrendered to the river’s pull, letting it carry her gently to her rest. After all, many had died unremarkable deaths in defense of the Fey — why should Nimue be any different just because she had been queen for a moment?

There was some pain and a hint of fear — two arrows to the body and a lack of oxygen had the same effect on all creatures, Fey or otherwise — but Nimue knew that it would not last long. Surely, her mother could not be disappointed in what she had achieved. The Fey had escaped with Arthur, and Merlin held the Sword of Power; Lenore’s dying wish had been honored, and there was nothing left for her daughter to do but join her. So, the once Fey Queen welcomed the water’s cold caress and spared not a thought for regret.

It was when the silence had settled into her bones like roots in the earth and Nimue thought she really ought to be dying by now that she noticed the light. Her eyes were closed and she was surely too deep for the overcast sky to reach her any longer, but through her lids she could sense an unmistakable glow. Perhaps this was death, then? But no, she had seen death, or at least seen Morgana claiming to be death, and there had been no bright light accompanying her. Curious and vaguely irritated, Nimue opened her eyes and would have gasped in shock had there been any air to draw in. Floating just before her was the shape of a woman in a billowing white gown, her face hidden by an opaque white veil. She stood out brilliantly against the deep green water, both terrifying and alluring as she raised her hand to Nimue’s cheek.

The girl stared even as her vision finally began to dim, oblivion coming for her at last, when the strange woman leaned forward and kissed her mouth through her veil. The fabric felt little different from the water on her lips, but from that kiss a warmth began to bloom, and when the woman pulled away Nimue realized with another shock that she had drawn a breath. She could breathe.

Was she breathing water? Air? It was impossible to tell; Nimue knew only that she was suddenly inhaling and exhaling steadily, and her vision was returning with unnatural clarity. She looked down and could see the two arrows protruding from her stomach and chest, though the blood had stopped leaking from her wounds. A school of tiny silver fish swam past her cheek, and an eel slid lazily between her legs. She looked up and could see the bright spot of light shining on the water’s surface, distant and yet not as far as it should have been. Finally, Nimue returned her attention to the ethereal figure that floated before her, who observed the young woman from behind her gently swaying veil.

Without stopping to consider whether she could talk in this state, Nimue blurted: “Who are you?”

 _Stupid_ , she thought. _Say ‘Thank you for saving my life’ first._ Although, in fairness, Nimue wasn’t entirely sure that this creature intended to let her live.

The veiled woman tilted her head and spoke in a clipped, placid voice, “I believe you have met my sister, the Widow. Or rather, you would have if she had not been murdered before she was to come collect you.”

It took Nimue a moment to work out her meaning, concluding that whoever the Widow had been, she was meant to bring the young Fey Queen to her death, but that Morgana had killed the Widow instead. A strange rush of competing emotions swept over Nimue, from warm gratitude for her friend’s protectiveness to shame that she had interfered with nature and fate in such a way, to fear of how powerful Morgana must be to destroy an eternal creature, and finally relief that a weapon that could do such a thing was no longer her own burden.

“I’m sorry,” Nimue said softly. The woman in white did not respond, merely straightened her head again, causing her veil to curl on itself as it followed the movement.

“But…. I don’t understand. Why am I not dead? Are you here to take me?”

“Of course not. I could not bring you into death even if I wanted to. I am the Bride. My sister and I serve entirely different domains.” The veiled woman swept her arms gracefully around her as if gesturing to the river itself, then continued, “You are not dead, Nimue, because you are not done. Not yet.”

There was a pause as Nimue expected her to go on and explain herself. But it seemed the woman who called herself the Bride was content to simply float there with Nimue neither dead nor alive, breathing neither water nor air, with no clear path in any direction. Another school of fish swam in front of her face and she swatted at them in frustration.

“Not done? So you’re here with another task for me?”

“Yes, the Fey—”

“Haven’t I done enough for you?” Nimue heard her voice rising even in the surreal silence of the oppressive water. “Haven’t I given enough, lost enough? What else could you possibly want from me?” An image came to her of Gawain’s broken body lying on the ground, and she swallowed the fresh wave of grief. Her breath came in ragged bursts, as if she were breathing real air as she leaned forward through the water in her rage. “My mother gave me a sacred task, and I did it! I fulfilled my duty. The Fey are safe and Merlin will destroy the Sword of Power so that it can never harm anyone again. I don’t want to die, but I want to see my mother again! I’ve earned it!”

She had advanced on the Bride to where they were nearly nose-to-nose again, though the woman had reacted not at all to her tirade. Nimue held her with a glare for another moment, but then she sagged and sighed, drawing back and wondering if it was possible to cry in this state. She wanted the reassuring burn behind her eyes that would tell her tears were on their way, some small relief when her greater deliverance had been so unjustly delayed.

Nimue felt a gloved hand on her face and looked up to see the Bride now tenderly cupping her cheek, her thumb stroking away the unshed tears as if she knew they should be there.

“Of course you miss your mother.” The woman’s voice had changed. It was no longer impassive and disinterested, but now warm, with a soft edge where the final syllables fell away. “And naturally, she would be so, so proud of you. You have given so much, Nimue, and suffered much pain.”

She drew away and her voice rose slightly, although it remained gentle. “But the Fey are not safe. Merlin will not destroy the sword. And there are those who need you still.”

The river pressed in on Nimue, carrying the Bride’s words and their horrible meaning with it. She had failed. She had failed her people, and now she would have to go back and face them, the queen who cheated death even as she led those who trusted her to theirs. The thought was unbearable and again she reached desperately for the tears that would not come.

Raising her palms up in supplication, Nimue begged “But what am I to do? What do they need from me? You have to tell me what to do, how to save them!”

The Bride’s face was still hidden, but Nimue swore she could hear a gentle smile in her voice as she said “For now, just live. Live, and the rest will follow. You cannot save anyone if you are dead.” Still, the girl shuddered with fear and frustration, casting her gaze around her as if the answer might swim by, like the pair of eels nearby that twisted around one another before fading into the darkness. “Do not be afraid to suffer, Nimue. Be afraid of missing all the joys life has to offer. The world is full of far more joy than pain.”

That seemed like such a ridiculous statement to Nimue, who was floating in the cold river with two arrows embedded in her body, that she couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh. But the Bride drifted around her until she floated at her back, then gently laid her hands on Nimue’s hips. “Let me bring you back, dear girl. There are those who will need your help, and who might offer you joy in return.” Nimue thought briefly of Arthur and the happiness she might have found with him. Could there be more for her? Or would she simply live to witness the final destruction of the Fey and the dominance of the cruel forces responsible for their extermination?

She looked upward at that steady glow of hazy midday light on the surface. The Bride was giving her a choice. She could simply refuse. Refuse to live, refuse to sacrifice any more for a losing battle, refuse to gamble on uncertain joys. The Wolf-Blood Witch could return to the death she had earned, satisfied that she had done what her mother had asked and that anything that happened after her death was not her responsibility.

Even as the thoughts drifted across her mind, Nimue dismissed them. Of course she would live. There was nothing for her but to live and keep fighting for the Fey until there were none left to fight for. Outcast or queen, she was Fey, and she would never abandon her people.

Turning her head to the Bride, who waited just over her shoulder, Nimue nodded her assent. Lightly squeezing her hips, the veiled woman began to rise with her charge through the water, startling two fat salmon who had been circling just over their heads. Nimue felt the drag of the river against her clothing, suddenly aware of how cold the water truly was. The deep green around her slowly gave way to a paler tone, and the brighter space teemed with life. Turtles, shrimp, and a huge variety of fish swirled past, chasing each other like squabbling families. As the pressure of the water lessened, Nimue realized that it was becoming harder to draw breath, harder in fact than at any time since she had first hit the water. The cold river stung her nostrils and just as she was about to panic, her head broke the surface.

Before she had time to even sputter, Nimue was assaulted by the intense brightness of the sun and the sudden pain that had returned to her chest as she remembered the two arrows buried there. She wanted to wail in her agony, but she was still trying to breathe, flailing her limbs and trying not to sink again. Finally, she produced a cough, and a second later she was vomiting river water. It was only after she was finished and had caught her breath that she noticed the Bride was still there, supporting her so that she stayed above the water, and humming soothingly as Nimue’s panting slowed.

The girl tried to focus on making deep, even breaths, despite the fact that every inhale caused a stab of pain from the arrows. Behind her, the Bride leaned back and pulled Nimue atop her so they were both facing upward. The sun was still painfully bright, but Nimue felt safer now, resting on her rescuer as if on a raft, held securely by those ethereal arms. She felt again the drag on her clothing as the Bride began to move them through the water, away from the distant roar of the waterfall and toward some destination that only she knew.

Nimue’s mind was sluggish, full of questions but with no way to organize them well enough to ask one. She chose instead to surrender to the Bride, much as she had surrendered to the river. _Although,_ she thought, _they might be one in the same._ The pain was beginning to fade a bit as they continued to float downstream, though it occurred to Nimue that the arrows would need to come out if she was going to keep to her agreement to live. This thought suddenly struck her as incredibly funny, as did the image of what they must look like drifting down the river: a white-shrouded creature carrying a half-dead young woman like a baby otter. Perhaps the sight would be enough to frighten away any Red Paladins who came across them. That thought quelled her sudden feeling of mirth, as she realized that agreeing to live meant facing those demons again, and she shuddered.

The sun had slipped farther in the sky when Nimue felt reeds on her face, though it was still some hours before sunset. She raised an arm to bat away at the thin leaves that scratched and tickled her cheek, but stopped when the movement renewed the pain from the arrows. A moment later, she was fully enveloped by the patch of reeds, having apparently reached the riverbank at last. She felt oddly heavier in the shallow water as the Bride dragged her halfway up onto the muddy land, leaving her head and shoulders safely out of the water even as her legs bobbed among the reeds. Nimue found it a tremendous effort to open her eyes now, the exhaustion and pain making themselves felt in every part of her body. Even so, she turned her face to her rescuer and gazed at her through narrow slits.

The Bride remained veiled as before, but leaned over Nimue and smoothed back her wet hair, still humming in a tuneless but soothing way. In a voice hoarse with swallowed riverwater, the girl whispered, “What now?”

“Now you rest, Nimue. As you said, you have earned it.” Her voice was still warm and calm, but her words filled the girl with fear and confusion.

“But…. you said I was to live.”

“And so you shall. A friend is coming soon to help you. A foe as well. Just rest now, dear girl. To live, you must rest.”

In a less exhausted state, Nimue might have been frustrated or even alarmed at the Bride’s cryptic language, but for now she could only think that resting sounded like an excellent idea. She managed only one barely-audible “Thank you” before finally falling asleep.

The Bride stayed poised above the slumbering girl a moment more, then raised her head and slowly swept her gaze across the forest clearing at the edge of the river. The air rang with the sounds of a hundred different mating calls — birds, frogs, and insects — but in the distance there was the faintest impact of slow hoofbeats on bare earth. For several minutes, the Bride remained perfectly still, looking in the direction of the sound. Then, she slid backwards through the reeds, sinking into the river until only her head was visible above the water. Still moving toward the center of the river, she dropped still lower, until finally the green water closed over her head, leaving only a tiny swirling eddy where she had vanished.

The cacophony of determined wildlife grew louder now to almost deafening heights, but the girl on the riverbank slept on. The hoofbeats drew nearer, their steady rhythm joining the chorus as they approached with the promised friend.

And the foe.


	2. In the Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot and Percival seek a safe place to hide in their flight from the Red Paladins, but they find another threat lurking in the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am overwhelmed by the response to my first chapter of this fic! Thank you so much to everyone who clicked, read, left kudos or comments, or shared.... you all have brightened my entire outlook at a moment when there are a lot of dark things happening in the world.
> 
> The rest of the story is beginning to take shape in my outline, so I'll just say that I intend most characters to have happy endings and pretty much everyone gets a redemption. For now, I hope you enjoy this new chapter as much as I did writing it (especially the Squirrel sass)!
> 
> **Minor TWs for this chapter: some blood, suggestion of clerical abuse**

On a shabby patch of road not far away, two riders swayed monotonously on a single sullen mount. They had been riding all day, stopping only to relieve themselves and drink, or try to pick something edible from among the foliage, and both they and the horse were exhausted. The smaller rider slumped forward along the horse’s neck, his limp arms bumping against its shoulders with each stride, while the larger strained to hold his own head up to remain alert for danger. This was more habit than choice for the monk, who could not remember a time when peril had not lurked in even the most mundane and domestic of settings — and those had been rare indeed.

The monk had been in this attitude for hours, but when he caught the first chirp of a cricket in the waning afternoon sunlight, he sat up straighter, flinching from the pain of the many seeping wounds that hid beneath his clothes. Crickets…. Sunset was not far off at all, then. He would need to find a place for him and the boy — Percival, he reminded himself — to safely spend the night. With greater attention than before, the monk began taking stock of their surroundings.

The dirt road they traveled sat nestled in a copse of sparse pine, one of many they had passed through in their aimless flight from the Red Paladin camp at Grammaire. In fact, the pine had been their saving grace throughout the journey, as large blueberry bushes grew riotously at the edge of each patch of trees. Still, the monk had eaten nothing else since the previous day, and after hours in the saddle, it occurred to him that the berries would taste much worse coming back up. He swallowed carefully and glanced southward, to the left. The trees grew denser there, a few hundred steps away, and he knew that the river lay somewhere in that direction, as well. What he couldn’t recall was whether that area was entirely cliffs and rocky outcroppings, or if the land sloped gently all the way down to the water. Turning his attention north, to the right, he could see the trees tapering off into an open field again. No cover at all. Left it was then.

He next needed to find a way to move off the path without leaving an obvious trail. The lack of underbrush was helpful in that regard, as the wide horse wouldn’t go snapping off a lot of branches and leaving a distinctive hole in his wake, but it would still be nearly impossible for a heavily-laden mount to avoid making clear hoofprints on the forest floor. The monk was trying to choose a thicker pile of fallen pine needles to walk on when a light trickle reached his ears. He strained in the saddle to lean over the boy without waking him, and sure enough just ahead was a small stream…. That ran right over their path. _Perfect._ They could turn right into the rocky streambed and the water would hide any footprints.

Taking the reins, the monk kicked lightly to speed the reluctant horse into a canter, passing right over the stream and continuing several paces before turning around and walking slowly back, assuring that there would be at least some suggestion that a rider had continued through the wood. With a little coaxing, the horse stepped into the brook, and the monk slid from his back and landed with a light splash in the water, momentarily doubling with the pain of jostling his wounds. Taking deep breaths and stepping carefully to avoid any sucking silt, he led the horse with the little boy down the center of the stream into a dense thicket.

There was much more cover here, and it seemed to suppress both light and sound as the little group moved deeper into the wood. To someone else it might have been unsettling, but to the monk, it was oddly comforting.... He felt much more secure in the dark and quiet than in the open, with men and vile creatures always of murderous intent. Elsewhere it was kill or be killed, but here it was merely survive. That was something he could do. Usually.

“Where are we going?”

The monk was so startled by the child’s voice that he nearly lunged for his weapon. He glanced briefly over his shoulder at Percival, who was now sitting up in the saddle and rubbing his eyes. The monk got a thorn in the cheek for his trouble and turned his face back forward, tugging the horse through the uneven streambed. Up ahead he heard the breathlike rushing of the river, and his stomach suddenly groaned at the thought of fish. He yanked harder on the lead, receiving a perturbed grunt in response from their long-suffering mount.

“You know you’re as rude as you are ugly?” Percival snapped, apparently completely awake now. The monk ignored his taunt and pushed forward toward the increasing din of the river, stumbling now on the smoother stones in the stream. Fish sounded delicious right now. Especially if they had time to cook one.

“Lancelot!”

The monk froze. Slowly, he turned his entire body to face the young boy who was now fully glaring at him from atop his perch. Hours before, the child had asked his true name, and he had given it. It had never occurred to him that Percival would actually address him by that name. The sound of it for the first time in years made him feel stripped and hollowed out, like a tree whose insides had been eaten away until one strong gust would collapse it.

Percival seemed to realize his use of the name had had an effect, so he smugly repeated “Lancelot. You should answer when people talk to you. Then maybe they would stop trying to kill you.” He shifted slightly in the saddle in a way that indicated he was tired of riding, too, but continued with an almost regal air, “I suppose I’ll spare you today. If you just tell me _where we are going._ ” The boy fixed the young man with a sternly expectant stare, as if for all the world he were a knight addressing his squire.

The monk — Lancelot — held Percival’s steady gaze a moment longer, then turned back toward the sound of the water, grumbling “There’s a river up ahead.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” came the smirking voice from behind him. “And good, it’s about time we stopped because I need to piss like hell.”

Lancelot’s prior experience with children had involved mostly screams and cries as he burned their homes, so he was as always thrown completely off-balance by this foul-mouthed and brazen little boy who would spit in the face of death even as grown men cowered. He had absolutely no idea how to respond to Percival’s chattering, and he vacillated between annoyance and admiration depending on how determinedly the boy needled him.

Finally, they came to a pile of boulders, the stream squeezing between far too narrow a crack for the horse or riders. Lancelot was momentarily discouraged, but another glance to the right showed the boulders falling away into a clearing, the rushing river surely just beyond. Judging that they were far enough into the brush to risk leaving some signs of their passage, the young man led them through the thicket, pressing thorns away until they stumbled into the open space.

It was crescent-shaped, curled around a small bulge in the river and only a few paces wide, shaded on the far side by an enormous ash tree. The ground sloped slightly, but it was dry until it reached the riverbed, where a thick patch of reeds shielded much of the river from view. In short, it was perfect. Secluded, protected from view, with space for a fire and a dry place to sleep. If he’d not lost his faith, Lancelot would have imagined divine influence in finding such an ideal spot.

He was turning to help Percival down from the horse when the boy slid from its back and fell with a dull thud to the earth. “Ow. Oh gods, I have to piss.” He stumbled to his feet and ran to the edge of the clearing to do just that.

“We need dry wood for the fire; try not to get everything wet!” Lancelot snapped as Percival made an unnecessarily loud and indulgent sigh of relief. Irritated both at the boy and at himself for letting a child’s antics annoy him so, Lancelot stomped to the other side of the clearing to relieve his own aching bladder as well. Then, he began to gather branches and kindling for the fire. As he bent down to grasp a cluster of gnarled twigs, a searing pain raced across his side and back, and he realized that many of his wounds were still open, leaking anew every time he stretched his body to any task. Wounds weren’t new to him, but in the past they’d usually been treated within days if not hours, unless Father Carden felt he’d been particularly unfaithful. These were already caked with grime and starting to fester, and he would be flirting with death indeed if he didn’t at least wash them soon.

Dumping his pile of firewood in the center of the clearing, he turned his attention back to Percival, who was now petting the horse’s nose and murmuring what sounded like dirty phrases to it in a soothing tone. Lancelot briefly remembered the child telling him that he liked horses, and was about to mention it when Percival raised a flask from his side and took a large swig.

Lancelot marched over and snatched the flask from his hand, glaring down at him as the boy sputtered “That’s awful! What is that?”

“It’s water” Lancelot deadpanned, watching Percival wipe his mouth in distaste.

“What, you don’t have wine? Gods, you monks are so boring. It’s a good thing you have me or you’d be dead in a day out here by yourself.”

“I think we’ll survive without wine” the young man growled, reaching over the boy’s head and grabbing the larger water bag from the saddle. He shoved it into Percival’s chest and pointed to the river. “Fill that up. And don’t piss in the water before you do.”

The boy flashed him an impish grin and trotted down to the riverbank. Lancelot turned back to the pile of wood, trying to gauge how much more they would need to last them the night and potentially cook a fish. The searing aches across his body had begun to throb, and all he wanted was to collapse onto the ground and not get up until morning. Actually, he’d prefer to stay several days or even a week, but the thought of his brother monks finding them made him sick with dread, so it would be best to keep moving. Although where they would go, he still didn’t know.

There was a shout of horror from behind him and Lancelot whirled around, hand grasping for his sword before he realized he was no longer wearing his weapons. Down in the river, Percival’s head was barely visible among the tall reeds, and he was screaming unintelligibly, trying to pull something from the water. His wounds forgotten, Lancelot’s powerful body carried him in just a few strides down to the river, plunging through the reeds to where Percival was shouting “No! You can’t! You promised me! You can’t!” Panic and tears lined his face, but he didn’t seem hurt, so the young man turned his face to the object in the water.

It was a dead girl.

Ethereally pale, eyes peacefully closed, with two arrows standing up out of her body, she floated in the shallows as the fading sunlight cast rose-colored reflections on the water. Percival sobbed and tugged at her body, trying to draw her onto the riverbank. Lancelot gazed down at the girl, feeling a sudden and inexplicable stab of recognition. He had seen many bodies in his life, had killed many people, and he surely didn’t know this young woman, and yet…. There was something familiar. He shuddered, feeling oddly as if he had plunged headfirst into a pile of ash leaves, his body changing all over and taking on a completely different, unnatural form.

“Help me!” Percival wailed, and Lancelot shook himself from his unease to grasp the girl under the arms and drag her out of the water. As her head fell back against his chest, she groaned, and he nearly dropped her in shock.

“She’s alive!” shouted Percival. “Hurry, hurry! We have to save her!” Lancelot recovered his grip on the unconscious girl, realizing now that her body was still warm despite the cold of the river, that she still breathed even if in shallow gasps, and that her heart beat feebly under her arms where he held her. As quickly as he could without disturbing the arrows that protruded from her chest and stomach, he dragged her farther up the riverbank until he could lie her on the dry ground. Percival crouched over her, tapping her cheeks and shouting “Nimue? Nimue! Nimue, look at me! You promised!”

Lancelot again felt the strange prick of familiarity, as if he knew that name, or knew for certain that it belonged to this girl. Moreover, buried under the heavy odor of river water was a familiar scent. It was Fey for certain, but he couldn’t think of where exactly he had smelled it before.

He glanced quickly over her body and saw no injuries save for the arrows. Lancelot pulled lightly at the girl’s clothing to reveal where the shafts had struck, and saw that blood had gathered in a small pool around each entry wound, and a tiny amount would dribble out with each breath. He had pulled arrows out of himself before, but never out of other people except to cause pain, and he could think only that she would bleed out in minutes as soon as they attempted to remove the points.

He looked up at the tearful child now rocking back and forth over the young woman’s form, intending to tell him it was too late for his friend, but instead he blurted “Who is she?”

Percival stopped crying and blinked at him incredulously, almost indignantly. His eyes flicked back to the girl’s face and then he raised them to Lancelot, a note of pride now in the set of his little jaw. “She’s my friend, Nimue, the Fey Queen.”

Lancelot stayed perfectly still. Silence pressed in on him, heavy and dark. _The Fey Queen. The Wolf-Blood Witch._ She was here, and she was alive.

It was as if the unconscious woman had suddenly transformed into a monster. The Wolf-Blood Witch had slain scores of Red Paladins, and he had watched as their lacerated, blood-soaked bodies were drawn from a forest pool, or split apart by enchanted roots. She had taunted and shamed him again and again, always escaping the scene of her slaughter, leaving her tantalizing scent behind among the carnage. Before rescuing Percival, all he wanted was to find her and kill her. And now she was here, helpless and half-dead before him.

He looked coldly at the boy. “She’s going to die.”

“No, she’s not!” snapped Percival, crouching protectively over the witch like a fox cub over its wounded mother.

Lancelot gestured placidly to the arrow shafts. “These have to come out, and as soon as they do, she will bleed out and die. That’s what happens to creatures who get shot.”

“NO!” Percival shouted, his eyes wild with grief and rage. “I’ve lost everyone else! Even…. Even the Green Knight is gone.” Lancelot felt a pang of guilt as fresh tears slid down the boy’s face. He wondered if he could have saved the Fey knight, who had accepted him as a brother without question and had kept the Weeping Monk’s secret to the end. But a knight was very different from a witch.

The child glared at him now with a hint of the hatred he’d had before Lancelot had saved him. “We are going to save her, somehow. If we were dying, she would save us.”

“I doubt that,” the young man mumbled, warily eyeing the unconscious girl. “But it doesn’t matter. When the arrows come out, she will die. That’s all.”

Percival glared at him a moment longer, then slumped onto his heels, letting his sobs overtake him again as Lancelot wrestled with an intense wave of unexpected guilt and sorrow. The crying child dug his fingers into the earth and viciously ripped up clumps of grass, reveling in the feeling of tearing at something, rending, ripping apart, until two small piles of torn earth lay at his fingertips. It was at that moment that he suddenly gasped “The Hidden!”

“What?”

“Nimue can heal herself! She…. she can hear the Hidden! And they can hear her! I don’t really know how it works but I know she can do it!”

Lancelot considered that perhaps the boy had completely snapped from the grief. Of course he had heard of the heathen gods of the Fey, but it was all lies and the superstition of a dying culture. He wondered if he should just yank the arrows out now and get it over with, to spare Percival the pain of hope. But the child was already taking the girl’s hand and burying it in the hole he’d made in the earth, and instructing Lancelot to do the same with her other hand.

Feeling ridiculous, Lancelot dug a small hole and placed the witch’s hand in it, noticing again the warmth of her skin and the sharp tang of her powerful scent. Unsettled, he turned his attention back to Percival, who was still trying valiantly to wake his friend and explain the plan.

“Nimue? Nimue, wake up!” He shook her harder, almost too hard, and she groaned, tilting her head slightly away from Percival. “Nimue,” the boy sounded impatient now, “you have to heal yourself. We’re going to take the arrows out and then you have to tell the Hidden to heal you.” The girl turned her head slightly back toward the child, but still did not open her eyes or show understanding. Determined, Percival dug his hand into the earth and grasped her buried hand, saying “Nimue, you have to ask the Hidden to heal you. Squeeze my hand if you understand.”

Lancelot glanced down at where her other hand disappeared into the earth next to him and shifted uncomfortably. The whole western sky burned a brilliant pink now, like a halo around the treeline, while the deep violet of night crept up behind them. He turned his attention back to Percival, who was waiting with a look of hopeful desperation on his young face. Suddenly, he jumped and his eyes lit. “She did it! I felt it! She squeezed my hand! She’s ready!”

“Percival, I—”

“Shut up, snake’s arse. Get ready to pull out the arrows.”

With an intense sense of dread, Lancelot leaned forward and grasped the shaft of the arrow embedded in the witch’s chest just below her shoulder. Placing his other hand firmly on her shoulder to keep her still, he looked up at Percival, who suddenly appeared so very, very young. The boy nodded and placed his own free hand on the girl’s other shoulder, pressing down and looking once more into her face before turning to Lancelot and whispering “Now.”

In one firm but fluid motion, Lancelot drew the arrow from the girl’s chest, meeting almost no resistance as he pulled it free. In the instant he saw the blood begin to well up in the wound, he pressed his hand down on it hard, and she let out an animal scream of pain. She tried to pull away from his hand but he held her fast, her arms taut as she gripped the earth in her agony. Percival shouted “Now the other one!” and Lancelot grabbed the final arrow shaft and tugged it upward, trailing splatters of red in its path. He tossed it aside and slammed his hand down on the hole now pulsing blood from her stomach.

“Now, Nimue! Pray to the Hidden to heal you! Do it now!” Percival was screaming, barely distinguishable from the girl’s wails of pain as she writhed on the ground, her blood already staining the grass no matter how hard Lancelot pressed her wounds. In another moment, her screams began to fade, and the monk was sick with the certainty of her death. Between heavy, wracking sobs, Percival mumbled prayers to his gods, and Lancelot looked skyward as the last stain of sunset vanished.

“Born in the dawn….”

“DON’T SAY IT!” the child screamed, his eyes reflecting the rising moonlight. “Help me! You have to ask the Hidden, too!”

Lancelot knew that there was no one there, no one to answer prayers just as no one had ever answered his. He wished the boy could learn this lesson another way, but perhaps this was the only method available. Pain was a great teacher, Father Carden had always told him. And so it was.

Percival’s cries subsided to a whimper as the girl grew still and silent. “Lancelot,” he whispered tearfully, “help me.” And the place in the Weeping Monk’s heart that was new, or that perhaps had always been there but was buried under layers of horror, pulsed again with a curious fervor. The place that had led him to risk everything to rescue a child, now led him to root himself into the earth and pray, _If anyone out there is listening, help them. Hear them._

_Hear us._

Time trickled by, but the girl’s heart still fluttered under Lancelot’s hands. Percival prayed. The crickets became deafening.

When he felt something wrap around his wrist, Lancelot’s eyes flew open and he beheld with terror the sight of the girl’s body, almost completely encased in roots. They sprang from the ground around her hands and twisted themselves up her arms, creeping across her chest and twining around one another until they formed a cage, a shroud. Where he pressed against her, the roots snaked around his hand, pinning him in place so that he was unable to pull away. He glanced up at Percival and saw the child smiling serenely, his own hands bound in roots where he held his friend’s body. Lancelot looked down at his hands and realized now that wherever the roots touched his skin, it shone a leafy green. Ash roots. The ash tree at the edge of the clearing. Somehow, they had called the roots of the ash tree to them.

Then, as suddenly as they had grown, the roots retreated. Unwinding themselves from his wrists, they crept back over the girl’s shoulder, under her arms and finally back into the earth beneath her hands. Her heartbeat was strong and steady, her breathing even. Lancelot remained unmoving, his hands still slick with her blood, unsure of what to do. Percival reached out and placed his own small hand over the young man’s broad one. He gave a little push, and Lancelot removed his hand.

The moon had risen just bright enough to reflect off the young woman’s pale skin. In the places where the arrows had been, through the holes torn in her clothing, they could see her flesh, perfectly smooth and whole. Streaks of blood crisscrossed her body, but there was no other sign of her wounds. She had been completely healed.

Lancelot fell back on the ground, his breath coming in violent bursts as he tried not to think at all about what had just happened. Truly, she was a witch. And now, when she should have died, when he should have killed her, she had lived. In his mind he saw the horrific irony of finding her in the water, just as they had found the Red Paladins she’d killed, and in healing her with roots, which had killed Brother Odo at the abbey. What a cruel sense of humor these Fey gods had.

He wanted to be sick in private, or at least to simply sleep, but there was more to be done if they were to stay alive. Lancelot raised himself and went through the motions mechanically, collecting more firewood where he could see or sense it, kneeling for a few moments to strike the kindling, feeding the fire until it seemed sated enough to burn reliably for a while. Turning again to Percival, he found the boy trying to drag the girl by himself closer to the fire. Lancelot went to grasp her under the arms again, but since she was no longer injured he realized it would be easier to simply carry her. He set her near the fire, still fighting not to think of anything that wasn’t immediately tied to survival, and turned back to Percival.

“There’s nothing to eat,” he said simply.

“Nothing for _you_ to eat, maybe,” the boy replied, “but I’m going to eat those.” He pointed down to the river’s edge where, absurdly, two enormous fish flopped on the shore, as if they’d simply leapt up onto the riverbank. Lancelot stared first at the fish, then back at the grinning boy. Finally, he huffed with resignation and staggered down to retrieve the fish. _I am definitely going to hell._

They speared both fish on Lancelot’s sword and took turns holding it over the fire, mostly because Percival insisted he was as strong as any knight and could prove it, even as his arms shook after a few seconds holding the heavy sword. And the fish tasted magnificent. Lancelot found himself unable to remember when he had ever eaten food so good. Percival managed to hand-feed the girl a few tiny, tender pieces of fishmeat, although she never once seemed to regain consciousness.

Almost immediately after the last of the fish was eaten, Percival toppled to the side and began to snore. For a moment, Lancelot sat in the silence and watched the flickering firelight on the boy’s face, but in the next instant he was assaulted by all the memories of what he had done, and he leapt up to distract himself. Walking around to where Percival lay, he pulled his cloak from his shoulders and made to drop it over the sleeping child. “Not me” the boy murmured as he felt the weight of the heavy fabric fall on him. Startled, Lancelot yanked the cloak up in confusion, until Percival mumbled “Nimue. She was in the water. She’s cold.”

The young man turned his gaze to the witch. She slept peacefully, not a hint of a shiver. The boy was probably just talking in his sleep. Then again, he would be a complete pest about it in the morning if he remembered. Reluctantly, Lancelot shuffled over to where the girl slept and dropped the cloak over her, instead.

For a moment, he stood still, just looking. Then he turned abruptly and found the horse, which had been grazing happily around the clearing while they had been occupied with more dramatic events. Loosening the saddle for more comfort, but not removing it in case they had to flee, Lancelot unhooked his belt from the saddle and strapped it onto himself, his sword tapping reassuringly against his leg. Then, feeling again the searing ache of every untreated wound that patterned his body, he made his way back over to the fire and tried to find a reasonably comfortable position to sleep in, one that would still allow him easy access to his weapon. He had seen too much of the Wolf-Blood Witch’s handiwork not to take her seriously as a threat, however innocent she may appear.

His sleep was fitful and uneasy.

_“I know what you’ve done. Fool. Child. Demon.”_

_Father Carden said all of this with his beatific smile, gently stroking the tear-like markings on the boy’s cheeks with an ash leaf, turning them from red to green and back again._

_“You lack faith, as you always have. You lack the vision to see how glorious the Kingdom of God will be when it is cleansed.”_

_The boy remained still, only the tiniest tremor apparent as the ash leaf began its path anew. He knew it was true, knew he deserved no more than this. Mercy was weakness because it allowed evil to fester, and that made even the righteous ill._

_“You know what will happen to the ones you save, boy? They will destroy everything. All that is good, they will ruin. And when they are done, they will come for you. They will steal your breath, steal your blood, destroy your mind, and tear your heart. You will be abandoned by the Almighty just as you were abandoned by that Fey whore who whelped you, only this time there will be nowhere to turn.”_

_The leaf stopped moving. Thorns sprouted from the stem, long and sharp as daggers. Father Carden lowered the thorns to the boy’s neck and pressed one into his throat._

_“Remember, child, what happens to betrayers….”_

“Don’t move, or I’ll kill you.”

This time, the voice wasn’t warm and fatherly, but cold, hard, and…. Female?

Lancelot opened his eyes.

As his vision adjusted to the predawn light, he saw a pair of violently blue eyes glaring down at him. The Wolf-Blood Witch stood above him, with the point of his own sword pressed to his throat.


	3. In the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nimue wakes to find herself face-to-face for the first time with the terrifying figure who has haunted her steps for weeks - the notorious Weeping Monk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are killing me with these comments! Thank you so much for all the lovely response to my last chapter! As it turns out, I hate cliffhangers as much as you do, so this chapter came together pretty quickly. I hope it lives up to your expectations!
> 
> I did watch through the show a second time this week and discovered a continuity error with my fic which is driving me crazy. Haven't decided yet if I will try to resolve it in the story or just ignore it, but hey, it's all magic anyway so let's just roll with it for now....

Nimue swam upward out of sleep as if sprouting from a seed, pushing through the oppressive soil in search of sunlight. And she found the light, though her eyes remained closed. Through the red drape of her lids, she felt the burn of morning rays as they would be slanted through trees, only seconds after slicing over the horizon. Trees…. She was in a forest. Safe again.

More sensations burst upon her in quick succession: the warm cocoon of some heavy, coarse cloth that wrapped around her, the fresh scent of morning dew mixed with the sharpness of pine, and the languorous trill of larks out searching for breakfast. The contradictions comforted her, that she could be warm and dry while just outside her covering everything was cool and damp, that she could be so silent while the forest creatures sang so loud. The space between sleeping and waking often felt like another world, somewhere with no pain or fear. Nimue had not realized how much she missed it, having slept in a castle for less than a week.

_The castle in Grammaire…._

Memory shattered her peace like ice. Gawain’s death, killing Father Carden with Morgana’s help, finding Merlin mortally wounded, the flight to the narrows. Iris with her bow. The impact of one arrow, then another, and the long fall from the stone bridge.

Drowning. Then, the Bride. Life. A riverbank.

Eyes still closed, Nimue slowly slid her hand down her chest, from shoulder to stomach. The arrows were gone. She sucked in a breath as she felt the frayed edges of the holes in her clothing where they had been, but could feel no wounds on her skin where she had remembered their points. Had she dreamed everything? Was this still a dream, or a gentle way to coax her into the death she thought she had escaped?

Her eyes opened and Nimue pushed the covering aside, hissing as the cold air stung her exposed skin. She inspected where the arrow wounds should have been, finding a peeling crust of brown, dried blood, but no puncture in the flesh. Shivering overtook her as her mind groped for an explanation of a healing that only her mother might have ever attempted. Had the Bride removed the arrows and healed her? Nimue couldn’t remember, but it was the only plausible way she could be lying here alive and unmarked. Unless…. The friend. The foe.

Nimue smelled the soothing aroma of charcoal and glanced to where the remains of a campfire sat extinguished just a few steps away. Next, a small snore, and she looked beyond the charred wood to where a little boy slept, his limbs flung wide in the way that only small children can sleep. _Squirrel!_ Though her body was still heavy with sleep, Nimue flung off the remainder of the cloth and crawled over to him. Her eyes swept over the child looking for signs of injury, and she felt almost weak with relief to find that he seemed completely unharmed.

But…. surely he wasn’t here alone? She turned slowly and beheld the sleeping form of a man dressed in gray. From her vantage point, she could see only his boots and knees as he slept on his right side, the tip of a sheath pointing up over his left hip. Nimue stood as silently as she could, her heart pounding in her stomach as she approached the man on the ground.

As his face came into view, she nearly stumbled back in horror. The distinctive markings on his eyes left no doubt. This was the Weeping Monk.

Frozen in place by coming finally face-to-face with the creature of her nightmares, Nimue darted another look at Squirrel, wondering if there was an injury she had missed. He still slept peacefully with a hint of a smile on his face, as if he were not just a few paces away from a genocidal monster. But she knew there were some harms that could not be seen, and she shivered again before turning her now hawklike gaze to the monk. Whatever this murderer had done to Squirrel, he would pay. He would pay for every one of his crimes against the Fey.

First, though, she had to disarm him. At any moment, he could wake and then she and Squirrel would both be in danger. Nimue questioned whether she could be silent enough to walk around the sleeping monk and find a better angle for removing his sword without waking him, but since the thought of leaning over him terrified her, she decided to risk it. Keeping her eyes focused on his closed lids, ready to leap in front of Squirrel the moment they cracked open, she shuffled slowly around the monk’s feet and knelt on one knee by his raised hip. Grasping the massive hilt, she willed herself to be still, waiting until she was certain he felt no change in weight as he slept on. When his breathing remained even for at least a full minute, Nimue drew a deep, silent breath of morning mist, and pulled.

The sword slid free of the sheath with a hushed sigh, but the weight caught Nimue off-guard and she nearly dropped it on her sleeping enemy. It was no Sword of Power, and she found herself briefly missing the enchanting song of the Devil’s Tooth before she returned her attention to the threat at hand. She padded back around to his front to look down into the monk’s face.

She could kill him now. By rights, she should. She was the Fey Queen, or had been, and it was her duty to avenge their dead. Again, Nimue shuddered at the recollection of the dying Moonwing’s account of his slaughter, and at her own brief memory of him in the razing of the Sky Folk village. Even Arthur and Gawain had shared their harrowing tale of him torturing Bergerum at the mill. There was no doubt about the Weeping Monk’s cruelty, and the danger he posed to all Fey.

But asleep, and without his hood, he looked somehow less threatening. His hair was lighter than she expected, tousled wisps curling around his face like a babe’s, long lashes blending into the tearlike streaks on his cheeks. Were it not for those markings, he might look just like any other young man. To think that a hood could have such an effect. _His hood…._

Nimue’s head snapped back to where she had been sleeping. The cloth under which she had lain lay crumpled there, and she recognized it immediately as the monk’s cloak. Anxiety stabbed her stomach as she tightened her grip on the sword hilt. Why had the cloak kept her warm instead of the monk? Or Squirrel? Why did Squirrel appear unharmed? And how had she come to be here at all?

Answers, she needed answers first, and then she would kill him. Nimue shifted her eyes back to the monk, and she took a step forward, placing herself so to block his view from Squirrel’s sleeping form. She exhaled slowly and, dropping into a half-crouch, pressed the tip of the sword into the soft flesh under the monk’s chin, and affected her most threatening voice.

“Don’t move, or I’ll kill you.”

His eyes opened.

They were startlingly blue, and as his gaze focused, they widened slightly in an unmistakable expression of fear. _Good,_ she thought, _you should be afraid of me._ Nimue let him take her in, let him feel the full weight of his humiliation at being caught by the Wolf-Blood Witch at the end of his own sword. She almost hoped he would lunge at her, giving her an excuse to end his life now and take Squirrel away from here, forgetting this nightmare had ever existed. On the other hand, she relished again the feeling of power she’d had as the Fey Queen, and she wanted to see it reflected in his eyes. _I_ _’ve won,_ Nimue thought. _You thought you would kill us all, but we escaped. And now you are the one hunted._

She could hear now his breath coming slightly faster, and saw his eyes flick past her to where Squirrel still snored softly. A hot spike of rage shot through Nimue, and she pressed the point of the blade harder into his neck.

“Look at me!” she snarled. He did, and their eyes locked again over the sword.

“You will answer my questions without lies, and _if_ I am satisfied, I may kill you quickly.” The monk’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly at this, but he made no reply. Nimue willed her arms holding the heavy sword to remain steady as she continued, “You will speak quietly and not move from that spot. Threaten me or the boy in any way, and you will meet a fate worse than any of your red brothers.”

Seeing a small trickle of blood fall from the sword’s point down his neck, she risked taking a small step back. It wouldn’t do to cut his throat before she had the information she needed. The monk watched her retreat another step, blade still lifted, then slowly raised himself to his elbows. Nimue remained poised to spring, taut as a bow while he gradually made his way to a sitting position, wincing but eyes focused on hers the whole time. Finally, he rested his hands, open, at his sides, as if to reassure her he did not mean to fight. She was not reassured, and made her mistrust clear with a withering glare.

The monk returned her look with those unsettling eyes, the sharp blue capping long drips of red, and Nimue felt again the slide of fear in her stomach. He waited as the moment stretched, then murmured, “Well? Ask.”

His voice was so much softer than she expected, even though she had told him to be quiet. Her brain raced to fit this detail into the image of her nightmare, along with the icy eyes and curling locks. At the same time, she realized she had too many questions and had no idea what to ask first.

At last, she settled on: “What have you done to Squirrel?”

“Percival.”

She raised the sword higher. “What?”

“His name is Percival. He’s not an animal.”

This was not what she expected and Nimue struggled to maintain her threatening stance as the monk appeared to relax.

She shook her head and glared again. “What have you done to him?”

His eyes again flicked involuntarily to where Squirrel still slept behind her. Returning his gaze to her face, he responded, “I took him from the Paladin camp.”

“Why? Have you harmed him?”

“No, I…. I don’t harm the children.” His voice softened to a whisper on the last word, cut short by a snort of laughter she could not contain.

“Don’t harm the children? Liar. I suppose that means I will be killing you more slowly now.” Nimue gave him a grim smile that she intended to be terrifying, but to her surprise he simply dropped his chin as if he were genuinely ashamed. The apparent display of conscience disturbed her and she ground her teeth on the next question.

“How did I come to be here?”

The monk raised his head and seemed to study her for a moment. Determined not to squirm under his observation, she focused on holding the sword steady.

“We were hiding here and found you in the river with two arrows in your chest.” He said this matter-of-factly, as if it made sense that he was with Squirrel and didn’t kill both of them on sight. “Who shot you?”

Nimue jabbed the sword closer to his face again, watching with satisfaction as he jerked backward defensively. “ _I_ ask the questions. You live longer that way.”

She was considering her next question when a small voice mumbled drowsily behind her, “Hey Lancelot, want to see who can piss farther across the— NIMUE! Nimue, what are you _doing?_ ”

She heard him scrambling to his feet and barked “Stay back, Squirrel! He’s dangerous!”

“Yeah, to the Red Paladins he is! Put the sword down, Nimue!” Squirrel slid into view, his hair sticking out in every direction and his little face contorted into an indignant rage.

Nimue held the sword steady, even though her arms had begun to ache with the weight. She continued to look directly into the Weeping Monk’s eyes as she said, “You know what he’s done, Squirrel. How many Fey he’s killed and tortured. He and his brothers burned our home. My mother, your father — they are dead because of _him._ ”

The boy fell silent for a moment while she remained focused on the monk, whose face had turned harder at her recital. His mouth had thinned to a small line and his eyes shone with what might have been real tears if she hadn’t known better.

Then Squirrel spoke again, his voice higher and younger, tinged with the desperation of a child trying to convince himself of what he wants to believe: “That was before. He doesn’t kill Fey any more. Now he kills Red Paladins, instead.”

“ _No_ ,” Nimue hissed. “ _I kill Red Paladins._ ” She looked directly into the monk’s eyes as if she could burn through them with just her gaze. “Like I killed Father Carden.”

There was a blur, an impact, Squirrel’s shout, and then Nimue was on her back with the edge of the blade under her chin, the Weeping Monk crouched above her, his face contorted with livid fury. She realized in horror that he had always been capable of disarming her from the beginning, had been merely toying with her and biding his time as she asked her pointless questions instead of slitting his throat when she had the chance. She panted, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of her fear but knowing it was plain on her face. The sword edge pressed into her neck and Nimue barely suppressed a sob of terror.

Squirrel was screaming again, crying “Lancelot, no! Stop, you idiot! STOP!”

But the monk didn’t appear to hear him at all. He leaned closer to Nimue’s face, blue eyes burning with violence and bloodthirst. “ _Did you now?"_ he whispered. “Did you kill him? Or are you the one lying now, witch?”

Nimue’s vision narrowed to just his face, and she wanted desperately to spit at him, but somewhere far away she could hear Squirrel crying and begging. She realized that if she let the monk kill her, the boy would be alone and unprotected, and her terror spiraled as she slipped closer to unconsciousness. The sounds of the forest dimmed and a hush of ethereal whispers took their place.

The monk’s eyes widened at the pattern of leaves that suddenly spread across her face, and then he was yanked off of her, his blade glancing across her cheek with a sharp sting. Nimue’s senses came rushing back, but the otherworldly whispering rose, joined to Squirrel’s screams and the screeching of terrified birds. Scrambling to her feet, she lunged to protect the little boy as he shouted “Noooooo! No no no! Stop it! STOP TRYING TO KILL EACH OTHER!”

Confused, Nimue shot her gaze toward the monk and saw him bound in curling roots, wrapping themselves around his limbs and pulling him toward the treeline. As they watched and she clung to Squirrel to stop him from chasing after, the roots lifted the monk against the trunk of a giant ash tree and stretched his limbs broadly in the shape of a cross, holding him fast as he strained against them. His eyes were wide but he made not a sound, struggling against the roots as they wove themselves ever tighter around him.

Then, Nimue saw. His hands had turned green. And an exposed ankle, wrapped in root, was green as well. Everywhere that the roots touched skin was green and patterned with leafy veins.

The Weeping Monk was Fey.

Nimue’s hold on Squirrel slackened, and he whirled in her arms, pounding on her chest. “Make it stop, Nimue! You have to make it stop!” She barely heard him, still reeling from the revelation. How could the enemy of the Fey be Fey himself? How could he murder his own? Bile rose in her throat, along with a fresh wave of rage. _He deserves this._

Squirrel, realizing she was not listening to him, lunged for the fallen sword in the grass and started dragging it toward the suspended monk. He tried to lift it to hack at the roots binding the young man, but it was too heavy for him and his swings couldn’t reach high enough. With another scream of frustration, the boy dropped the sword and tried to climb the roots to pull them off of the monk.

“Nimue!” he shouted again, “Make it stop! He saved you! He saved me!” She ran toward him, arms outstretched to pull him down, but he leaned away, yanking at the roots curling around the monk’s wrist. “We owe this ugly idiot our lives! Let him go!”

Nimue could barely make out what he was saying above the din of malicious whispers that coursed through her veins, singing to her of her power and the righteousness of squeezing the life out of one more traitorous monster. What did it matter if the monk had shown an instant of mercy when he had killed so many? Why should he live merely because he might once have been Fey? No, surely this was justice, to allow the forest to avenge itself on its lost son. She turned her face up to the doomed man.

And saw Squirrel, clinging to and tearing at the roots and whimpering “Lancelot, come on! Fight back, you stupid goat! Lancelot, please….” The child’s voice turned watery, and Nimue realized with cold shock that he genuinely cared for the monk. Monster or not, his death would devastate the little boy, and she would be the cause of that pain. After all he had suffered, he might never forgive her, and she would lose him as surely as she had lost everyone else she loved. He would hate her, and she would deserve it.

Shaking with exhaustion and fear — of the monk, and of herself — Nimue stretched her arms out to Squirrel and moaned, “I don’t know how to make it stop!”

“THAT’S HORSE-SHIT, YES YOU DO!” the child bellowed, ripping at another root that appeared to be fighting back. Above them, the monk made a gasp as one now twined around his neck, green spiraling out from where it gripped his throat. Squirrel roared and latched onto the root attempting to strangle his friend, pulling against it with all his strength.

Nimue dropped to her knees and plunged her fingers into the earth, squeezing her eyes closed and pleading with the avenging whispers. _Please, please, I didn’t mean it. If he dies it will hurt Squirrel and I could never hurt Squirrel. Please stop, I beg you._ Above her, she could hear the monk gagging and the child crying, and she let her tears fall into the black soil, tears for every Fey she had been unable to save. For her mother, Squirrel’s father, Amvri’s father, Gawain, and countless others. _Please don’t kill him. Squirrel is all I have left. I can’t hurt him like this. Please._

The din of whispers rose for a moment, roaring in her ears, then abruptly faded. Above her, Nimue heard a fresh gasp and Squirrel crying “Yes, good! Breathe, you bloody fool! Breathe!” Shaking too hard to stand, she looked up and saw the roots untwining themselves from the monk’s body. They loosened and slithered away until he tumbled down the sloping tree trunk, landing in the moss and coughing violently as he tried to catch his breath. Beside him, the child gently patted his shoulder, eyes red with tears.

Finally, the monk rolled onto his back and tried to draw slow, deep breaths. Each one seemed to cause him pain as he huffed and grunted, hands fisted at his sides. Nimue knelt a few paces away, her face and body slack with shame. When his breathing had slowed and the silence had stretched on for several uncomfortable minutes, the monk turned his face to Nimue with hatred in his eyes. She returned his gaze and a silent understanding passed between them. They both knew now that he was the better fighter, but her power was just as lethal. If they did not choose to restrain themselves, one would eventually kill the other.

Squirrel sat next to the monk, knees drawn up to his chest, watching them with a tense expression as though waiting for them to start fighting again. Nimue studied him for a moment, finding it much easier to look at the little boy than the strange monster-turned-man. Then she gathered her courage and addressed the monk again in her coldest voice:

“You won’t hurt Squirrel?”

“Percival. And no, I won’t. Ever.”

She let out the breath she was holding. “Then I propose a truce. I won’t try to kill you and you won’t try to kill me as long as Squirrel needs us to keep him safe.”

“Wait, I’ve already saved both of you!” the little boy snapped, leaping to his feet. “Clearly you need my protection more than I need yours. But that’s easier for me if you _stop trying to kill each other._ ”

The monk looked up at Squirrel with a vague hint of a grin, and Nimue thought she’d never seen anything so unsettling. Then he turned back to her and growled, “Agreed. If your interrogation is over, I’m going to find us some food.” He limped to his feet, one hand on the child’s shoulder, eyeing her as if expecting her to object.

Nimue stood and took one step toward the treeline, mumbling something about searching for food as well. “Fine,” the monk muttered as he turned away, still leaning on Squirrel. “But don’t alert any Paladins of our presence. They might not be able to kill you but they can certainly kill us.”

Suppressing a final shudder, Nimue slipped between the trees and into the blessed solitude of the forest.


	4. Fever Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nimue questions who she is without the Sword of Power. Is she still the Fey Queen? Meanwhile, the Red Paladins have nearly caught up to the fugitive Weeping Monk, but it seems his wounds have caught up with him, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you yet again for all the sweet comments on this fic! I'm so glad you all enjoyed the rather tense meeting between these crazy kids in the previous chapter. Still a lot of stress for them here, but I promise I'm planning some rest for these poor babies soon!
> 
> Also please note that I am updating tags as I go to reflect not just content but also my intentions, particularly that we're headed for a Happily Ever After (eventually). If you feel that a tag is missing or inaccurate, please let me know as I am an AO3 n00b.

The cold morning air filled her lungs with a satisfying burn as Nimue plunged through the forest with wild abandon. The feeling of being alive, alone, and enveloped in verdant green reassured her after a dawn filled with painful awakenings. Many things had changed in the last day, but the forest was a constant, always settled comfortably in its cycle of growth, decay, and rebirth, never caring about the dramas that played out in the worlds of men or Fey. Nimue had gone at least fifty paces before she realized that she should better mark her surroundings so she could make her way back to the clearing.

She paused in a well-shaded space carpeted with ferns, allowing her heart and breath to slow as she cast her gaze back the way she had come. Her flight had left a bit more of a trail than was entirely wise, and it also occurred to her that there were likely more edible plants growing in the clearing by the river than here in the dim forest. Still, she was not ready to go back just yet, and at a minimum she should be able to find some mushrooms out here. Nimue studied the path back for landmarks, noting particularly a very elbow-like tree, then turned and began walking more slowly and deliberately now, scanning the ground and trees for telltale colors.

The trees here were somewhat varied: there were many pine, but also birch and a smattering of young oaks, and after a few minutes she came across an ash tree, smaller than the one at the edge of the clearing but majestic nonetheless. Pausing to gaze up at the gnarled branches, Nimue shuddered at the memory of what she had seen when the monk was pinned to the tree. Green skin, threaded with leafy veins. Fey skin. In the next instant, righteous fury settled in her heart at the thought of anyone who could kill and hunt his own people, her people. Even when shunned and bullied by her own Folk, she would never betray them like that.

 _But that’s not true,_ a little voice hissed in her mind. _You nearly killed several in your village when they tormented you, turning the forest against them in vengeance. And you cut off Bu’luf’s hands simply for laughing at you._

Nimue reached up and snatched a small branch from the tree, taking vicious pleasure from the loud snap it made. It was irresponsible to make such noise and signs of her passage when there might be Red Paladins about, but she resented the direction her thoughts had taken and wanted the satisfaction of breaking something. _We are nothing alike,_ she snarled to the traitorous voice in her mind. _He is a killer of the Fey. I am the Fey Queen._

That thought, too, brought a sinking unease and uncertainty. Was she still the Fey Queen? No one but Merlin and Morgana had seen her fall, and they surely thought she was dead. In fact, Nimue realized with another twist of sorrow, Merlin himself might be dead by now. Only Morgana would be able to tell anyone of the Fey Queen’s fate. A few might mourn, but they would soon turn to someone else’s leadership, perhaps to Kaze. And too, what had happened to the sword? Had Morgana taken it back, and would destroy it as Merlin had intended? And if Nimue returned, could she still be Fey Queen without the Sword of Power?

As if indignant at being ignored, her stomach suddenly gave a loud growl, and she dropped the branch to continue searching for food. Weaving between several patches of light that appeared as the sun rose higher, Nimue came to a shallow gully, where trees on each side leaned toward one another as if sliding into the center. On the other side, she finally found what she had hoped for: a damp, jagged stump with clusters of brilliant yellow-orange fungi on it. She ran a finger over one to test the wavy shape and sniffed it to assure a sweet scent, confirming that it was not the poisonous variety. Satisfied, Nimue was about to pull them from the stump when she realized that she had forgotten to bring any kind of carrier.

In fact, she hadn’t brought anything at all, hadn’t even thought about what she was doing, really, when she ran into the forest. She had simply wanted to get away from the Weeping Monk, without any consideration for Squirrel’s safety or what might already be available in the clearing. That might be foolish of her, but Nimue felt somehow confident that the monk was not lying when he insisted he would not hurt the boy. For that matter, she was fairly certain he hadn’t lied about anything she’d asked. He seemed to care for Squirrel; there was no other explanation for how the child had escaped from the Red Paladins when Gawain had not survived.

The memory of Gawain threatened to overwhelm her again, so she returned her focus to finding a way to carry the mushrooms. Glancing down, she decided to stuff them into the loose fabric of her tunic, using her neckline as two pockets. They might get a little crushed and one was exposed by the arrow-hole in the cloth, but it would allow her to keep her hands free. It wasn’t quite enough food for the three of them yet, however, so Nimue reached up and grasped a low-hanging branch to pull herself up over the edge of the gully.

And immediately dropped back down, heart racing. _Red Paladins._

In the half-second that she had risen over the ravine’s edge, she had seen at least a dozen of them with their horses, clustered only a few paces away. Nimue pressed herself to the sloping earth, heart hammering against her ribs, expecting to hear a shout that indicated they had spotted her. But as seconds passed and the rushing in her ears faded, she realized the only sounds were the snorts of the horses and some low muttering. She waited…. One minute, two minutes…. But no, they hadn’t seen her. Yet.

Should she run back to the clearing and alert Squirrel now? Or would they spot her if she moved? Perhaps they were just passing through and would not search for them unless she gave them a reason to look. She needed a better view to know what kind of threat they posed. And then…. Perhaps she could take care of the problem herself, just as she had when she captured Grammaire.

Nimue cast her eyes around to see if there was a safer vantage point from which she could observe the Paladins without being seen. Just to the right of the stump where she’d gathered the mushrooms, another cluster of ferns spilled over the edge of the gully, their wide fronds offering thick cover to the forest ground. Careful not to step on any sticks or dried leaves, Nimue crawled over to where she was just downhill of the ferns, then began to creep up the side of the ravine until she could see over the edge again. Through a pinpoint gap in the fronds, she could see the red of one brother’s tunic, but nothing else. She remained still another moment, but there was no movement from the Paladins. She could get closer.

On her elbows and belly, Nimue crept nearer to the red brothers, cautiously avoiding the stems of the tall ferns that protected her. As she crawled, the murmuring grew louder, and she began to catch snatches of their conversation.

“.... absurd that we have to take orders from….”

“.... unless you have a death wish….”

Nimue paused, peering ahead at the clusters of red visible between thick layers of fern. She could do it now: call upon the Hidden to destroy her enemies, just as she had done many times before. She could eliminate the threat and send a clear message that the Wolf-Blood Witch was still very much alive. Excitement coursed through her veins at the thought. Her hand suddenly itched for the sword, missing its sweet, reassuring song of triumph. She supposed this would be one victory she would have to manage without the sword.

Threading her hands into the soft soil and bowing her head in concentration, Nimue reached for the voices of the Hidden, calling out their vengeance on these creatures that defiled their wood. She pressed her will into the space between herself and the Paladins, waiting for the thrill of power and the creeping sensation of leaf markings spreading over her face. Her ears tensed for the melodic whispers of the Hidden.

And she heard nothing.

Nimue’s eyes flew open and she clawed at the earth, realizing that there were no voices, that there was no power, nothing. Not a single sign that the Hidden heard her, only the dull bickering of the Red Paladins just ahead of her, still very much alive. What had happened? Why didn’t they hear her? This was…. This was just like before her mother gave her the sword, when she couldn’t control her powers and had only ever succeeded in scaring a few bullies. Back when she was lonely and despised, and all she wanted was to get away. Was she really nothing without the Sword of Power?

Now realizing that she had trapped herself in a vulnerable state just steps from her enemies, Nimue swallowed an icy lump of fear and returned her attention to the bickering Paladins.

“So kind of him to watch our flank like this,” drawled a sarcastic voice.

“The last shall be first, I guess,” grumbled another.

A third voice hushed the first two, snapping, “Quiet! Here he comes….”

Nimue suppressed a shudder at the sound of more horses approaching, squinting through the ferns to try to catch a glimpse of the newcomers. The new riders moved at a leisurely pace, gradually coming to a stop with the rest of the group. A familiar, simpering voice rang lightly through the trees: “Dear Brothers, do I take it you have found them, as you are all gathered in one place?”

Another, gruff voice responded, the one who had hushed the other two before: “No, Abbot Wicklow, we were just waiting for you to join us.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, Brother— sorry, what was your name?”

“Julian, sir.”

“Yes, Brother Julian. I am quite certain you are all up to the task of bringing your fellow brother to holy justice, and would never wish to claim credit for his capture. You should feel quite confident pressing onward until he is found.”

“Yes, Abbot, but….” Brother Julian did not sound confident at all. “After what he did to the Trinity Guard, we were concerned that he posed a danger to you.”

“To me?” Abbot Wicklow’s mock surprise was evident even from where Nimue lay, the damp forest floor slowly soaking through her clothing. “I do appreciate your concern, Brothers, but I am sure the Weeping Monk was not the _only_ reason the Red Paladins have been so feared in these lands, so of course I feel quite safe knowing all of you will capture him before the day is done.”

Nimue stifled a gasp as an uncomfortable silence settled on the group, broken only by a few nervously shuffling hooves. A moment later, another of the early speakers addressed the abbot: “But we have lost the trail, sir, so we don’t even know if we’re still going in the right direction.”

“I see.” The abbot’s voice was less mockingly pleasant now. “Do I take it that a badly — perhaps even mortally — wounded man carrying a Fey child on a single horse within a day’s ride is too difficult for God’s servants to find? Is this how you honor Father Carden’s memory, by allowing the heathens he cast out to overtake these lands once again?”

“No, of course not, Abbot, but—”

“Then let us not give in to fear, dear brothers, as fear is of the Enemy. Have you searched these woods yet?”

Again Nimue’s heart beat loudly in her ears as a Paladin responded, “Not yet, Abbot. There is a village just another league down this road, so we were going to see if they had sought refuge there before doubling back to sweep the woods.”

She heard hoofbeats that sounded as though Abbot Wicklow had spurred his horse forward at this. “Excellent, I’m delighted to see that God’s warriors have this situation well in hand. Let us continue then, for His glory.”

There were murmurs of “Amen” and then the sounds of hoofbeats and whinnies as the Paladins trotted away. As the noise of the horses faded, Nimue slid backward through the ferns, keeping her head low in case someone had lagged behind. Dropping over the edge of the gully once more, she rolled to the bottom and paused a moment to catch her breath.

A village only one league away, and then back to the woods to search. That gave Nimue, Squirrel, and…. the monk hours, at most, to escape before they were found. Less if any of the Paladins was a decent tracker. They had to leave immediately, and cover their tracks as best they could.

Forcing herself to pause another moment to listen for any riders who might have stayed behind, Nimue tried to calculate whether it was better to walk back slowly to avoid leaving a trail, or simply run to give them as much of a head start as possible. Staggering to her feet, she looked up at the forest canopy where the sun was now nearly directly overhead, and decided on running. They would need to destroy signs of the camp and make as much distance as possible before nightfall. Time was of the essence.

Scrambling up the other side of the ravine, Nimue spilled over the edge and leapt into a full sprint, darting between trees and over fallen trunks, trying to keep one eye on the ground to avoid stumbling. In a few moments, she came to the gnarled ash tree, mentally kicking herself for breaking off a branch earlier in her frustration. She weaved around it — to the left, she remembered — and kept running through clusters of thin birch and young oak, looking for the large patch of ferns where she’d paused after she first entered the forest

 _There!_ Nimue waded into the tall ferns, spinning around and trying to recall what her final landmark was that would lead her back to the riverside clearing. The elbow-shaped tree, that was it. But where was it? She spun again, panting heavily, knowing the distinctive tree should be to the east but uncertain now which way she was facing since the sun had risen so high. Was she in the wrong patch of ferns? Had she taken a wrong turn? Damn it all, why had she been so reckless?

Suddenly, the faint sound of her own name broke through her panic. “NIIIIIMUEEEEE!” _Squirrel!_ Nimue turned toward his voice and started running again, trying not to think about why he would call out for her like that. “NIIIIIMUEEEEE!” he cried again, louder now as a gap of sunlight appeared between the trees up ahead. She wanted to call back to assure him she was almost there, but the thought of the Red Paladins somewhere behind her clamped on her throat, and she chose instead to push harder in a final burst of speed until she tumbled into the clearing.

“Nimue!” Squirrel shouted in clear relief as she tried to sit up, breathing heavily as the world around her spun. He skidded to a stop in front of her, grabbing her arm and trying to pull her to her feet. “Something’s wrong with him! You have to help!”

“ _Squirrel,_ ” she panted, “Why — _on earth_ — were you yelling — like that? The Red Paladins are—”

“I told you, something’s wrong with Lancelot! We were gathering more firewood and he just started sweating and saying stupid things and then he fell over! He won’t wake up! You have to help!”

Still dizzy, Nimue moved to her knees and looked toward where Squirrel frantically pointed. A few steps from the site of the campfire, the monk lay crumpled on the ground, shaking so much she could see it even from the other side of the clearing. Cold dread slid into her stomach as she realized that any illness or injury would slow them down. He might yet be the cause of their deaths.

With Squirrel still yanking on her arm, she staggered over to where the monk lay and dropped to her knees next to him. Just as the boy had said, his friend was pouring sweat, groaning and murmuring incoherently, and shivering as if in the dead of winter. A fever. One of the worst she’d ever seen.

Nimue stared at the feverish monk for a moment, trying to clear her head. Then, she turned to the little boy. “Squirrel, the Red Paladins are here, they’re coming. They’re about to start searching the woods and they will find us if we don’t run, now. Go gather your—”

“You’re going to _leave_ him here? But—”

“He’s going to slow us down, Squirrel, we’ll be caught!” She squeezed his shoulders, trying to make him understand. “They’ll be here soon and then they’ll kill all of us, unless we run!”

The child fixed her with a steely glare: “Then kill them, Nimue! Ask the forest just like you did before and destroy them all! And you can heal Lancelot so he can run, too!”

Nimue listened for a moment, reaching out again for the whispers that had abandoned her earlier, but the earth was silent. The well of power inside her felt dry, empty. She dropped her arms, sagging in embarrassment. “I…. I can’t. I tried, but it’s not working. The Hidden won’t answer me.”

Squirrel stared at her, then whirled and found the monk’s sword, discarded in the grass. He heaved it up, shaking arms pointing it defiantly at the treeline. “Then I’ll kill them! Let them come and I’ll show them what a real Knight of the Fey can do!”

Ignoring the wave of pity that washed through her at the boy’s fancy of knighthood, Nimue labored to keep her voice calm: “I know you’re very fierce, Squirrel, but there are too many of them. We have to run, and we have to run now. Please.”

The child dropped the tip of the heavy sword into the grass. He looked at Nimue, then to his friend who shivered on the ground, and back at Nimue. He widened his stance and declared firmly “We’re bringing him with us. I won’t go if you don’t bring him.”

“Squirrel—”

“I thought you were the Fey Queen, Nimue! Queen of all the Fey! Well, Lancelot’s Fey, too!”

Nimue sighed and closed her eyes. The boy was impossibly stubborn and he was going to get them killed. But she knew he would not budge, even to death. Squirrel was braver than most grown men that way. She would have to find a way to get the monk — this Lancelot — out of here with them, preferably alive for the boy’s sake.

She opened her eyes and turned again to inspect the unconscious man. Though the idea of touching him frightened her, she had to examine the monk to have some idea of his condition and how to safely move him. Nimue glanced over the dried blood on his head and then down to his torso, where she saw his clothing soaked through with dark blood and sticking to his body in some areas. For the first time, she also noticed the stink of infection, indicating the likely source of the fever. She suddenly remembered Abbot Wicklow’s words to the Red Paladins on the road, “a badly — perhaps even mortally — wounded man,” and turned to Squirrel.

“Was he injured when you escaped?”

Squirrel looked both proud and worried. “Aye. He fought off the entire Trinity Guard.”

“He— What?”

“Yeah, way worse than Paladins, actually. They got him a bit but he got them back.”

Nimue turned back to the monk with a grudging respect. He’d certainly risked a lot to save the boy. She let her eyes rest briefly on his face, pinched with pain and red with fever, little wisps of hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead. He was appallingly vulnerable.

Shaking herself out of her discomfort, Nimue shuffled around behind the monk’s head and hooked her arms under his, snapping at Squirrel to lift his legs. He was far too heavy for the two of them, so they more dragged than carried him down to the river’s edge, and once there they quickly began peeling away his clothing.

She removed his boots and belt first, tossing them farther up on shore, then tried to look for a way to remove his doublet and tunic without cutting them off. However, Nimue abruptly determined that was a losing battle and sent Squirrel to drag the sword down to the water. It took both of them holding it at an awkward angle to create a small tear in the cloth, then they set the sword aside and used their hands to widen the tear until they were able to fully rend the doublet apart. The stink of sweat and infection assaulted her nose as Nimue went to work immediately on the tunic, which thankfully tore much easier.

To her horror, much of the tunic was stuck to open wounds, sure to cause new bleeding and pain as it was pulled away. Again she sent Squirrel to find a stick for the monk to bite down on, and instructed the boy to place it between his teeth and cover his mouth with his hand, in case he cried out. With a glance at the sun to try to gauge how much time they had before the Red Paladins returned, Nimue gripped the wet cloth and gently pulled.

The sight of the first wound made her gag. Surrounded by dried blood, the raw red center oozed pus and shredded flesh, new rivulets of blood appearing as the tunic pulled away from the skin. The monk’s body tensed and he groaned around the branch between his teeth. Nimue turned away, took a gulp of air, then steadied herself and set to removing the rest of the fabric. She revealed other wounds as bad as the first, and when she and Squirrel gently turned the unconscious man to the side to pull the shirt away from his back, Nimue gasped again.

Across the breadth of his back were welts, slices that had come unmistakably from a lash. Countless marks, both old and freshly new, and all clearly self-inflicted. As she stared at the latticework of wounds in horror, Nimue felt a phantom pain race across the scars on her own back. A dark gift from a dark god. Perhaps they had that in common, as well.

Tossing the destroyed garments up on the bank, Nimue glanced again at the sky and felt a sick pang of fear: If the Paladins had already started making their way back, there was precious little time before they were found. Turning to Squirrel, she asked if there was any wine.

“No,” he grumbled with a note of bitterness, “This idiot prefers water, apparently.”

Nimue nodded distractedly. Not much for cleaning wounds, then. Thinking quickly, she snapped again at the boy: “Squirrel, I need you to look for small white flowers — that’s yarrow — and bring me some charcoal from the fire. Hurry, and stay in the clearing.” The child scrambled off to do as she commanded while Nimue swallowed her bile and set to rinsing all of the monk’s wounds with river water. She struggled to hold him still as he flinched away from her, still sweating and shivering even as the water brought his temperature down.

Moments later, Squirrel splashed back into the water, his arms full of white flowers and a fistful of charcoal. Nimue inspected his bounty and her shoulders fell. Not yarrow. Some other white flower. She looked closer and saw that the clusters of blooms were fluffy, almost furry-looking, and realized with sudden relief that it was meadowsweet. _That will work for now._ She took the flowers and began crushing them in her hand along with a bit of the charcoal, working them together with water to make a salve. Then she began laying the paste gently into the monk’s wounds, starting with the worst ones and working her way out to the less severe. Squirrel brought her another batch of meadowsweet and charcoal, then both began tearing thin strips of cloth from their clothing to bind the wounds.

At one point while she was hastily wrapping the monk’s bandages, Squirrel stopped and stared at Nimue with a baffled expression. “What…. What in the gods’ name is in your shirt?”

Confused, Nimue glanced down and realized the mushrooms she’d collected in the morning were still there, somewhat crushed and sweaty but edible. She yanked them out and handed them to Squirrel. “Here, eat some. It’s all we’re going to get today.”

He glanced down at the monk, who was still unconscious and shivering lightly. “What about Lancelot?”

“He’ll choke if we give him anything. Just water for him today. Do you think you can get that horse over here?” She jutted her chin toward the horse who was still serenely nibbling at the long grass.

The boy grinned and nodded, running after the horse as Nimue surveyed her handiwork. _Not bad for having nothing to work with,_ she thought. _He might live._

There was a distant screeching, and she looked up. A flock of birds lifted into the air from beyond the treeline. Something had disturbed them.

_Paladins._

The sun now seemed to arc faster across the afternoon sky, and Nimue’s heart dropped to her stomach again as Squirrel brought the horse down to the water. Scrambling up onto the bank while the child kept the monk’s head above water, she gathered up all of the discarded clothes except the boots and belt and tossed them behind a boulder at the edge of the clearing. Strapping the belt onto herself, she snatched up the sword and awkwardly slid it into the sheath. She glanced briefly at the remains of the campfire but decided there was nothing for it. Any idiot would know someone had been here.

Next to the campfire she noticed the monk’s gray cloak which had kept her warm the previous night. Nimue raced up the bank and wrapped it around herself, noting that it smelled awful and certainly would not do for warming the injured man. As she approached the water again, she whispered to Squirrel, “Can we use the saddle cloth to keep him warm, you think?”

Noting her hushed tone, the boy glanced furtively toward the trees and whispered back, “Sure. It will be less comfortable for Galahad but he’ll manage.”

“Galahad?”

“I named the horse. Seemed only fair.”

Nimue might have smiled if they hadn’t been in peril for their lives. She pulled the saddle cloth from the horse and tightened the saddle, then waded back into the water with Squirrel and the monk. Then she instructed the boy to guide the horse into the water. Though he was nervous at first, Galahad seemed the trusting sort, and after a moment had waded into the river up to his chest. Nimue thanked the gods that the water moved so slowly here, and then she and Squirrel hauled the young man with all their strength onto the horse.

He let out a groan and she lunged to slap a hand over his mouth, hissing “Shut up!” through her clenched teeth. There was far too much splashing…. Surely someone had heard them. They all stayed still for a moment, hardly daring to breathe, but no human sounds came from the forest. Certain that they had only minutes now to escape, Nimue felt almost dizzy with fear.

Squirrel laid the saddle cloth gently over the monk’s shoulders, then jumped up behind him to hold him steady. Nimue led the horse slowly into the middle of the river. Once she could no longer touch the bottom, she swam briskly ahead to avoid the horse’s churning legs, making gentle coaxing sounds to encourage the reluctant Galahad across the darkening water.

For a brief moment, she feared that the combined weight of the riders was too much for a swimming horse, and she panicked, ready to swim for Squirrel the moment they sank. Thankfully, it seemed that the deepest part of the river was only a few paces wide, and the horse touched bottom again seconds after starting to swim. A moment later, Nimue could feel the pebbled riverbed too, and she quickly moved to take the reins. Together, they stepped out of the water, dripping onto a small patch of grass while Nimue looked ahead to the path she’d spotted from the other bank.

It was rockier on this side of the river, riskier for a mounted rider, but it placed another obstacle between them and the Paladins, so it would have to do. She looked up the pebbled slope to the thick treeline and the space where she thought the horse could fit. Behind them, another flock of calling birds lifted into the air, and to the right, the sun slanted lower on the horizon. Nimue pulled the horse with her up the hill, stumbling only once, and ducked back into the safety of the forest.

She paused only briefly to let out the breath she had been holding, then pushed on, wondering if she only imagined the voices behind her, or if the Paladins had really caught up with them. _Keep moving,_ she thought, _just keep moving._

Darkness fell quickly in the forest after sunset, and soon Nimue found herself moving more on instinct than sight. Several times she tripped over exposed roots or rocks, but counted herself fortunate that it was her and not Galahad with his two riders. She trudged forward on inertia, never daring to look back or even really consider where they were going. It was only away, away, away. It reminded her of her flight from her own village after her mother…. after Lenore…. Nimue blinked to banish her tears and pressed on.

Finally, when all hints of sunlight had gone and the forest began to appear forbidding even to her, Nimue thought she saw moonlight up ahead through a space in the trees. Pulling the exhausted horse behind her, she staggered toward the light until she burst into a small clearing, much smaller than the one on the riverbank. She squinted in the darkness and realized the space had been created by a fallen tree, which must have recently opened up a hole in the canopy. She turned to help Squirrel off the horse.

The poor boy had fallen asleep, his arms wound tightly around the delirious monk, and Nimue had to shake him to get him to let go. Drowsily, he climbed down and then helped her bear the weight of the young man as they slid him from the saddle. They dragged him a few steps to a soft bed of ferns, then laid him down before again wrapping the saddle cloth around his exposed torso. Squirrel then sleepily nestled at his back, murmuring “So hungry….” and Nimue’s heart gave a twist. She was hungry, too. The only thing they had eaten all day had been the mushrooms. And tomorrow…. Tomorrow, what if they had to run again? What if there was no time to gather food, or tend to the monk’s wounds? How long could they go on like this?

Nimue dropped into the soft ferns and turned onto her right side, leaving the sword exposed on her left hip as the monk had done. She might have taken advantage of it, but she understood how it could mean a split-second difference in reaching the weapon in time versus too late. She had just begun to doze when she heard a voice softly whimpering “No…. no, father….”

She opened her eyes and in the sliver of moonlight could see the monk shaking violently again. His fever had never really broken but the river had at least brought it down for a time. Now though, he shivered so much Nimue feared that he might be having a seizure. Hesitating for a second, she reached out and laid a hand on his forehead. Still burning hot to the touch and pouring sweat. And now, there was nothing she could do. She had no more herbs or remedies to help him, no water to cool him, nothing. And she realized in that moment that it had all been for nothing. He would die some time in the night.

She’d known ever since she’d seen the wounds, really. Known that his blood was likely already poisoned by the infection, that he’d simply gone too long untreated to survive without a real healer, and possibly even with one. Nimue thought again of her failure to save Pym’s Viking friend, how she had tried to heal like Lenore but simply lacked the power. And now the Sword of Power was gone, and she had nothing left. A queen without a people, without a domain, without a weapon, without power. She was useless, pathetic. Even the Weeping Monk was a better protector than she was, having given his life to rescue Squirrel.

Thinking this, she returned her thoughts to the shivering young man, and felt a sudden stab of pity. He might have been a monster once, but his final act had been to save a child, and he didn’t deserve to burn to death alone in a dark forest. Nimue recalled the lashmarks on his back and wondered what sorrow drove him to such self-harm. Did he hate himself for all he had done? Was he tormented by turning his back on the Fey? What must it have been like to have Father Carden as a mentor?

It was easy now, in the darkness and soft sounds of the nighttime forest, to feel sorry for the monk— What was his name? Lancelot. There was no one around to judge her for it, or tell her she had to be strong for her people. It was just her and a dying young man, and she was sorry for him. And then she remembered what Squirrel had said when insisting they bring Lancelot with them in their flight: _You’re the Fey Queen, Nimue. Queen of all the Fey. And Lancelot is Fey, too._

So he was. And Nimue found then that she could still be Queen, even without the sword or her powers. She could help this lost Fey son pass peacefully into death. Reaching out again, she placed a hand over his own, resting on the forest floor.

“You’re not alone,” she whispered into the darkness. “You’re safe.”

She heard his breathing slow and felt his racing pulse begin to calm under her hand.

“Thank you for saving Squir— Percival,” she remembered. “That was a very brave thing and I am so grateful he had you to care for him.”

His shivering slowed until there was barely a tremor across the narrow space between them, only small puffs of warm air as he exhaled.

Now shuddering herself, Nimue leaned slightly closer to whisper once more: “Lancelot.” He stopped breathing for a moment and she stilled, thinking he had suddenly passed. But then he sighed and began to breathe evenly again, his shivering all but gone.

“Lancelot,” she breathed again, “All Fey are family. Always. We are born in the dawn, to pass in the twilight.”

It was too difficult now to keep her eyes open, and Nimue let them fall closed with relief, sighing into sleep still holding Lancelot’s hand. She didn’t see the sprout that began to grow from beneath their joined hands, reaching its tender leaves toward the moonlight.


	5. The Green Knight Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nimue awakens to find her powers might not have vanished after all, and is forced to play nice with the now very alive Lancelot as they continue to evade capture by the Red Paladins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, this one took a while to come together. Thank you so much for all the wonderful comments and kudos on my last chapter, as they really helped me push through to get this one written.
> 
> I promise that this will be the last time they're running from the Red Paladins for a while as we'll be transitioning into a new phase of the story in the next chapter. But I needed to get them through the crisis so that they can have some space to work things out soon!

“Nimue! Lancelot! Look at this!”

Nimue’s legs tried to respond to Squirrel’s shout but her eyes and mind were still too deep in sleep to cooperate. She made it nearly to her knees before collapsing face-first into the foliage, blinking against the early morning sun that winked through the canopy. Her groggy brain registered that Squirrel didn’t sound hurt or in danger, so she lay in the soft ferns a moment longer, breathing in the intense scent of wet earth.

“Nimue, you have to see this!” came the boy’s excited voice again.

Irritated, Nimue rolled to her side and sat up, forgetting for a moment where she was, and with whom. “Squirrel, what—”

Her gasp echoed in the tiny clearing, although not as much as it should have. For where the previous night had been just a fallen tree, pine needles, and fern, the entire space was now filled with every plant imaginable. Flowers, herbs, berry bushes; the clearing overflowed with vibrant green life of every kind. Birds and bees flitted from bloom to bloom, raucous with their chirps and buzzing of excitement.

Overwhelmed, Nimue closed her eyes. It was impossible. Perhaps she had been too tired the previous night to see clearly. Perhaps she was still too exhausted, even now, and was imagining that an entire garden had sprouted overnight.

“Nimue, how did you find this place?! And why didn’t you wake me up last night to eat?” There was a loud crunching sound and Nimue opened her eyes again to find Squirrel sitting in front of her, a massive grin on his face and a half-eaten apple in his hand. She stared at the apple until he stuffed the remainder, core and all, into his mouth.

“Squirrel, where did you find the apple?” Cheeks full and juice running down his chin, the child pointed upward and Nimue followed his gaze until she gasped again. Arching over them was a small but hardy apple tree, heavy with bright fruit and dripping morning dew all over them. She knew — she _knew_ there had been no apple tree the previous night, and a glance behind the tree showed the same fallen trunk she’d noted, now covered with bright edible mushrooms. It was the same clearing. Somehow, this tree and dozens of other plants had grown as they slept.

Squirrel swallowed the apple and bit into another one in seconds, casting his eyes about for more to eat. He nodded at the overgrowth next to Nimue as he stood to investigate a bush at the edge of the clearing: “Better wake him up or I’ll eat it all.” Startled, Nimue realized she’d forgotten all about the monk — Lancelot — and she felt a pang at the thought of telling Squirrel that his friend was dead.

Hand shaking, she gently pushed a fern aside to see his body.

And gasped once more. Instead of a pale, lifeless young man, she found him ruddy with life, his chest clearly rising and falling as she watched. His face and closed eyes no longer appeared drawn and strained, but calm, even peaceful. Beneath the edge of the saddlecloth which had lifted slightly over his torso, she could see one of his wounds, still bound and packed with the salve she had made, but now smooth and healthy instead of swollen and red. Impossibly, he looked as though he had been healing for several days.

As her eyes traveled up the length of his body, assessing his condition, Nimue noticed the plant just behind his head looked familiar: a fat, spiky green bulb nestled with a bright purple blossom…. Burdock! And next to it, yarrow, the staunchweed that she had asked Squirrel to find the previous day. She swept her eyes across the clearing in excited disbelief: Comfrey, elder, blackthorn…. Every herb a healer might need for a wounded patient was right here.

Nimue tried to think of whether her mother had ever described an event like this, but the rush of memories was too painful. She decided not to question this miraculous gift, but to simply embrace it, reaching over the sleeping young man to grasp at the stalk of yarrow.

A hand closed over her wrist, and Nimue tensed, startled. She looked down. Wide blue eyes gazed up at her, first with something almost like wonder, then with suspicion. Nimue’s heart pounded against her ribs, remembering their last encounter when he had been awake. Surely, he was remembering the same and wondering if she was trying to kill him again.

Consciously and deliberately, she relaxed her body, fixing him with a haughty, perturbed look. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Remember? We have a truce. Let go of me.”

He seemed to search her eyes for sincerity before releasing her wrist, and Nimue abruptly turned away, discomfited by his nearness. She heard him grunt and looked back to see the young man trying to lift himself into a seated position.

“Lie down!” she snapped, thinking he was going to start bleeding again and would undo all of the work that some strange magic had wrought during the night. To her surprise, he obeyed, seemingly caught off-guard by her abruptness. He stared at her as if full of questions but hesitant to ask, which Nimue supposed he was.

Trying to calm herself, she adopted the disinterested, businesslike tone that she had often heard Lenore use with difficult patients. “You are recovering from serious wounds to your torso and abdomen. How are you feeling?”

Lancelot stared at her another moment, then glanced down at himself as if noticing for the first time that he was injured. He drew the saddlecloth aside and surveyed the sloppy bandages covering patches of smeared gray salve that still smelled of charcoal. Glancing back up at her, he recalled her question and said in his soft, low voice, “Alive.”

“Yes, well,” Nimue labored to maintain her dismissive air, “A oath is an oath. Are you in pain?”

He grimaced. “A bit.”

“Then you’ll want to stay still and do as I say so you don’t start bleeding again. First, I will need that yarrow behind your—”

“Look out below!” came a joyful shout from above, and the next moment, apples rained down on them as a little boy gleefully dangled from the apple tree.

“Ow, ouch!” Nimue cried as an apple bounced off her head and another struck her elbow. “Squirrel! Can’t you just hand them to us?”

The boy plopped to the ground next to her, snatched up one of the apples and took another giant bite, grinning at her around the half-chewed fruit. “You have to learn to dodge, or you’ll never survive the next battle with the Red Paladins.” He shoved the other half of the apple into his mouth, spraying fruit as he spoke thickly around it. “Good morning, Lancelot. Nice to see you’re not dead yet.”

“Likewise,” murmured the monk, although Nimue caught another hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. Squirrel offered him a somewhat bruised apple, and they all spent a few minutes in silence, broken only by steady crunching as they ate their fill.

After licking his fingers and burping loudly, Squirrel gathered another armful of apples and started making his way across the clearing, saying “Wait until Galahad tries these….”

Lancelot glanced back at Nimue, confused. “Galahad?”

“He named the horse.”

“Oh,” he murmured. “Actually, his name is Goliath.”

“Mmm” Nimue responded, deeply uncomfortable having small talk with the creature who had hunted her for weeks. She decided that it would be far easier to continue playing the healer, and reached again for the yarrow. Studiously avoiding looking at the injured man, she rolled the stalk between her fingers, trying to think of how she could create a new poultice and what else she might use to promote healing. Still, she felt him watching her.

“Did you really kill Father Carden?” the monk asked suddenly.

“Yes,” said Nimue, tensing at the question. Would he attack her again? Did he actually mourn that monster?

“How?”

Nimue suspected his real question was “Why?” and decided to answer both.

“I cut off his head with the Sword of Power” she snarled, finding it impossible to disguise the relish in her voice. “He killed Gawain, threatened Squirrel, and was going to kill me. I’m not sorry.”

The monk did not respond but turned away, staring into the undergrowth. As birds and insects rushed to fill the silence between them, Nimue continued nervously crushing the yarrow stem in her fist. When he had been unconscious, he had been just a body, a set of wounds that needed tending, but now that he was awake, he was very much a person, and she shuddered at the idea of touching him knowing what he had done, knowing he could feel pain.

“Why did you save Squirrel?” she said abruptly, clenching her fist around the destroyed yarrow.

The monk blinked and then turned back to her slowly, looking into her eyes in his unnerving way. “Percival wasn’t a threat. There was no cause to harm him.”

“But you nearly died for him,” Nimue pressed, needing to understand. “He told me that you fought the Trinity Guard. After hunting us, burning us, st—starving us….” She broke off, gasping sharply as the horror of it threatened to overwhelm her again. When she looked back at him, she could barely see him through the furious tears that blurred her vision, but her voice was steady. _“Why?”_

She blinked away the tears and saw a flash of grief in his icy blue eyes before he turned aside again, curling in on himself like a dry leaf. Seconds, then minutes passed as the sound of Squirrel’s cheerful murmuring to the horse drifted across the clearing. Still the monk seemed to have no answer. Perhaps, Nimue thought, he himself didn’t know why he had done it.

Sighing, she turned again to search for herbs when she heard the young man’s voice, barely above a whisper: “The Green Knight.”

Nimue’s head whipped back around. “Gawain?”

“He— he saw what I was. What I am. And he called me ‘brother.’” The last word was barely audible, but Nimue understood immediately. _Of course, Gawain would do that._ He had made it his life’s mission to defend the Fey, and to find the lost ones and bring them home. The Green Knight was known for his fierceness, but she knew that compassion lay underneath it all, remembered the gentle young man he had been before forming the Fey Guard. Naturally, he would reach out to this…. this monster upon learning he was Fey.

But the memories of the burning villagers from Dewdenn played in her mind, along with the image of Dizier and his wife cut down by their wagon, and Nimue feared that she was very different from Gawain. Unable to bear the monk’s presence any longer, she was about to stand and flee to the other side of the clearing to look for more herbs when Squirrel again tumbled to the ground next to them, holding his stomach and groaning. “Oooh, too much fruit….”

Nimue smiled and rolled her eyes, caught the monk doing the same, and looked away. For the first time, she took in the edges of the clearing, and realized that as much as they had been blessed with all the sustenance they needed this morning, the Red Paladins would find them before long if they did not move on. But which way to go?

She stood, brushing off her trousers. “I’m going to go scout our surroundings. Squirrel, you stay here and keep watch over—”

“Oh, let me go, Nimue! I’m the best scout the Fey have, the Green Knight said so!” The boy hopped up excitedly, ready to scamper off into the woods at her word.

“No, Squirrel, it’s too dangerous and—”

“Actually, he’s right,” came the monk’s soft voice. “He is the best scout you have. Stealthy, difficult to catch. You should let him go.”

Irritated, Nimue snapped “You never caught me.”

“Because you always used witchcraft to escape. Let Percival go. He’s the best man for the job.”

Squirrel was positively beaming, puffing his chest out like a prize goose. Nimue glared at the monk, who steadily returned her gaze.

“Fine,” she huffed, dropping to a knee in front of the boy and taking his shoulders. “But if you get caught or aren’t back in half an hour, so help me, I will find you and beat your hide all the way to the desert kingdoms. Understood?”

“Aye,” Squirrel replied with earnest seriousness.

“Fast as a fox,” Nimue whispered, leaning close and squeezing his shoulders once more.

The child nodded again. “Fast as a fox.” And he slipped into the forest.

Now trapped in the clearing alone with her patient, Nimue had no excuse not to clean and retreat his wounds. For a moment, she watched the place where Squirrel had vanished between the trees, then picked her way over to Galahad or Goliath or whatever the horse’s name was, and removed the heavy water bag from the saddle. Then, she made her way around the clearing, gathering yarrow, burdock, comfrey, and anything else she could find that might be useful. Returning to where the monk lay under the apple tree, she knelt and placed her bounty beside them.

Nervousness chewed at her stomach as she forced herself to look into his face again. He was watching her curiously, still somewhat warily, as if unable to trust that she wouldn’t try to harm him. Nimue shook off her discomfort and adopted her Healer tone again. “I need to clean out these wounds. Lie still.”

Working quickly, she removed the crude bandages from the cuts and poured water over them, washing away the gray salve from the day before. The young man hissed and flinched only once, but otherwise remained still and quiet under her ministrations. Nimue marveled at how quickly the wounds had healed, wondering again why the Hidden had withheld their power from her only to return it in such a strange fashion. The only other time that she had made anything grow other than murderous roots and branches was….

She froze, suddenly remembering Merlin encouraging her to use her power to cause a tree to bear fruit. An apple tree. Nimue looked up.

The tree had not been here the night before, of that she was certain. Yet there it was, now stripped of its apples, but paradoxically still covered in blossoms that would typically be long gone on a fruited tree. As she watched, one detached on a breeze and floated down to rest beside them. Nimue recalled the “trick of the mind” that she had used to bring fruit to the barren apple tree during her visit with Merlin. _I thought of someone I love._ She shivered again, even as the late morning air grew warmer.

Returning to her work, Nimue found a flat rock and began crushing her herbs against it. Water was a poor binder but at least it was clean, she reasoned, pouring a drop into her palm and mashing the herb mixture into it. Once she had a small mound of the poultice on the rock, she began gently applying it to the monk’s injuries.

He continued to remain silent, until she held up a palmful of poultice and said, “Turn over, I need to treat your back.”

The young man stiffened and shrank from her slightly, turning forward as if to hide his back from view. Nimue sighed with irritation and snapped, “Those cuts must be cleaned as well or they’ll fester. No need to be shy, I’ve already seen them.”

His eyes widened slightly and his chin dipped in embarrassment, but he turned slowly to give her access to his back. Nimue was confronted again with the shredded flesh, much healthier today but still marked by years of pain. As before, her own scars throbbed in response to the sight, and her touch became lighter, gentler, as she washed away the salve and placed the new poultice. Twice, the impulse to share with him the history of those scars rose to her mouth, but she held her tongue. He was, after all, a stranger. An enemy.

She was just finishing when Squirrel appeared next to them so silently that Nimue realized she really had underestimated what a talented scout he was. He knelt before them with a serious, businesslike expression and began rattling off his report: “The river is that way, a half-mile to the North and curving away from us. We came from the Northeast and left a massive trail; any idiot could follow us, so those Paladin scum must not really be looking. South and West are just lots of forest, but West goes mostly downhill. No trails or roads anywhere close.”

While she was somewhat relieved that the Paladins had not pursued them across the river, Nimue felt immediately anxious since it seemed unlikely that they would give up their quarry so easily. Evidently the monk had the same thought, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees, brows knit in concentration. “They’ll be setting up checkpoints at all the villages and roads around the forest. They know we’ll have to come out eventually. But if we stay, they will come for us.” He looked up at them grimly. “Or simply burn us out.”

Recalling that he had used that same tactic himself when hunting the Fey, Nimue shuddered. She supposed it was helpful to have his knowledge of the Red Paladins’ tactics as they made their escape, but the constant reminders of the Weeping Monk’s crimes made her sick with rage. As if hearing her thoughts, he cast his eyes away, gaze settling on the horse still grazing serenely at the edge of the clearing. At his knee, Squirrel watched him intently, seemingly enthralled by what surely felt like a military strategy council.

“We should leave Goliath behind,” the monk murmured, his shoulders falling slightly as he spoke.

Nimue and Squirrel both protested at once: “Absolutely not, we need him to carry water and food—”

“Lancelot, no! He’s the fastest horse in the world, he can outrun those Paladin nags—”

“—and you certainly can’t run yet, so—”

“We need stealth, not speed,” the monk responded, firmly but still in his strangely soft voice. Wincing, he pulled a foot under himself and then stood with only a hint of a wobble, already much stronger than he should have been after nearly dying the previous night. “And I can walk. Percival said it himself, we left too large a trail traveling with a mount. Safer to move on foot.”

“But won’t they kill him, Lancelot?” Squirrel looked positively horrified at the idea of leaving the horse.

The monk shook his head. “No one is stupid enough to kill a good horse, not even the Red Paladins.” He looked over at his mount again, and Nimue spotted a muscle pulsing in his jaw. He cared for his horse, too. She hated the reminder again of his personhood, that he had thoughts and feelings, fears and cares.

He stood there, stripped of his cloak and even his shirt, muscled torso patterned with bruises and poultice-filled cuts. There was nothing to conceal the soft curls of hair that caught in his thin beard, or the distinctive tearlike markings that gave him a look of constant sorrow. He had a face now, and a name, and Nimue resented his softness, and the traitorous feeling of empathy prompted by something as simple as affection for an animal. She had pitied him the previous night when she believed he was going to die, but now that she was confronted with a man, a man with thoughts and emotions and old hurts, her mind rebelled against him.

The monk shook himself and turned back to her and Squirrel. “We should go now, Northwest along the river, and get as far as we can before nightfall. We keep to the woods and stay quiet.”

“How can we be certain you’re not leading us into a trap?” The words tumbled from Nimue’s mouth before she could stop herself.

“Come off it, Nimue, he’s Fey,” Squirrel snapped. “I told you, he kills Paladins now.”

Embarrassed, Nimue did not respond or meet the monk’s eyes. She stared off in the direction of the river, but was unable to think of a better plan for the moment. “Fine,” she huffed, “Gather what food you can and let’s get moving.”

She and Squirrel began picking their way through the remaining foliage for edible plants, while the monk crossed the clearing to the horse and began removing his saddle. Once or twice she spotted him gently stroking the horse’s coat, while Goliath pressed his nose affectionately into the monk’s bare chest. Nimue’s heart gave another twist at the familiar interaction, and she tried to focus on collecting enough food to last them the full day of travel, not to mention more medicinals for the injured man.

In a few minutes, she and Squirrel stood at the center of the clearing, trying not to stare as the monk murmured a few words to his horse, their foreheads pressed together. Then, he stepped around and patted Goliath’s flank, and the horse stepped without hesitation into the forest. His owner stood another moment, watching him go, then limped slightly over to Nimue and the boy.

Leaning one hand against the apple tree, he surveyed them and his eyes fell on the belt and sword — his sword — still clasped at her waist. His gaze rose to her face. “I’ll carry the sword.”

She took an involuntary step back. “Absolutely not, I will carry it. I do know how to wield.”

“The Devil’s Tooth, maybe.” His eyes narrowed slightly when he named the Sword of Power. “But this one is mine and I’ve seen you handle it. I will be faster and more effective if it must be used.”

Nimue resented that he was right, even in spite of his weakened condition. Her connection to the Hidden had always given her an advantage when wielding the Sword of Power, more than her nascent skills with a blade. She WAS clumsy with his sword, it was true. Still, she angled her body away from him, reluctant to hand the only weapon they had back to the Weeping Monk.

“Oh for gods’ sake, I’ll carry it!” Squirrel’s exasperated growl broke the tense silence. “Hand it over, Nimue. You can fight over who uses it if we find any Red Paladins. As long as you let me kill a few first.” He stood before her expectantly, hand extended.

Nimue looked back at the monk, who shrugged and grumbled “Truce.” Pausing only a beat, she unhooked the belt and handed it to the little boy, who simply slung the belt over his shoulder and started for the West edge of the clearing.

Left standing awkwardly next to the monk, Nimue realized suddenly that the saddlecloth would not do to cover his bare torso as they walked. She abruptly pulled his cloak from her shoulders and handed it to him. He seemed startled for a moment, as if only just now realizing that she had worn his cloak as well as his sword. As he reached to take it from her, his finger just grazed her own, and Nimue practically lurched away from the contact, her senses humming. Slinging the now much-lighter water bag over her own shoulder, she followed Squirrel into the woods, hearing only a few soft footballs behind her as the monk too stepped into the trees.

As always, the dim light and hush of the forest soothed her frayed nerves, and Nimue fell into an easy rhythm of picking through the ferns, keeping Squirrel just in view ahead of her and occasionally glancing behind her for the monk. For the most part, he kept pace with them in spite of his injuries, but when once or twice he fell behind, it was the boy who stopped to wait, always assuring that his friend stayed with them. Before long, they could hear the river, and then began to follow its path while remaining within the safety of the treeline.

With nothing to distract her, Nimue’s mind wandered into her unanswered questions and anxieties, reminding her sharply of her cold fears and failures of the last day. Why had the Hidden abandoned her when she had so desperately needed them? And why would they lend her their power while she slept instead of when she had pleaded for their help? Most frightening of all, would they answer when next she called?

Too, what about the form their assistance had taken? There had been no creeping roots to eviscerate the Red Paladins pursuing them, no miraculous healing when she had been tending to the feverish monk. And yet, when she woke there was growth and bloom beyond anything she could have imagined: herbs to treat bleeding and infection, food of every kind, and especially that apple tree, dripping its healing dew right onto the wounded man. Nimue had never known the Hidden to work in such a way, and she wondered if she had ever had any power at all, or if they had been merely toying with her. Perhaps after all it had been only the sword that they wanted, never her, not the unloved Sky Folk girl tainted by a traitor’s blood and the mark of a dark god.

She had sunk so deeply into her shadowed thoughts that she nearly tripped right over the little boy when he stopped abruptly in front of her. “Squirrel!” she snapped as she steadied herself, “What—”

“The Green Knight,” he breathed, staring straight ahead. Nimue’s head snapped up, but she saw only forest. It was nothing but more tangled trees and knee-deep ferns. She moved to the side and looked down into Squirrel’s face, his eyes wide and his mouth trembling in excitement.

“Squirrel—”

“The Green Knight! Nimue, I saw him! He pointed left, to the southwest. I swear, he was there!”

Behind them, the monk appeared, his hand moving toward the sword hilt on Squirrel’s back, eyes scanning the trees for any supposed knight. Nimue knelt beside the child, gentling her voice to deliver the news he simply could not face: “Squirrel, I’m so sorry, but Gawain is gone.”

“No, I saw him, just there! He pointed left!” The boy turned earnest, angry eyes on her, gesturing wildly to the space ahead of them.

“They brought his body to me in the Paladin camp,” Nimue’s voice wavered but she continued, not wanting to spare Squirrel the necessary truth. “He’s dead. He died to save you, Squirrel, and all the Fey, which is why we need to press on.”

“No!” Tears now fell down his cheeks as the child wrenched away from her, looking desperately back to where he claimed to have seen Gawain.

“It’s true,” came a soft murmur from behind them. The monk had dropped his hand from the sword and now stood with his head and arms hanging limply just behind them.

The boy whirled on him and shouted “Shut up! He was there, I saw him!”

“Shhh!” Nimue hissed, shaking his shoulders before pulling him into a gentle hug. Squirrel stood rigidly in her arms, refusing to hug her back. She stood slowly and lifted her eyes to the monk. “We’ve been walking a long while. Let’s rest here and eat.” His eyes darted in the direction of the river and then back to her, and he gave a small nod. As she turned away to refill their water, Nimue noticed that his stance had changed and that he had begun to curl in on himself. A quick glance down the monk’s torso showed that some of his wounds had begun to ooze blood again, and she knew that he must be in terrible pain.

Making her way toward the edge of the treeline and the burbling sound of the river rushing over stone, Nimue again felt unbidden pity for Lancelot’s suffering. Pain of the flesh was a universal experience, and she knew how it could harm the mind and soul if not alleviated. Her mind flashed again to the self-inflicted wounds on his back, and she wondered how deep the damage went.

Before stepping out of the trees onto the riverbank, Nimue scanned the river’s edge for any signs of other people, especially Red Paladins. The water was shallow at this point, likely only knee-deep at most, making it an excellent crossing, but it seemed so deep in the woods that it was unlikely to attract much attention. After another moment’s pause, she slipped into the open and knelt at the water’s edge. It occurred to her that she was the best to risk being spotted in any case, as most of the Paladins had never seen her (and those who had were long dead) and likely believed she had died at the waterfall. If, of course, anyone had escaped to tell the tale.

Banishing that thought from her mind, Nimue refilled the water bag and was about to return when it struck her that willow bark could be an excellent pain reliever, and that she might find a willow tree here by the river. Lifting her head, she looked in both directions down the river until it disappeared around a bend, but there was no sign of a willow nearby. She lifted the much heavier water bag onto her shoulder and turned toward the trees, then paused. _Perhaps…._ Could she? Would the Hidden listen to her this time if she asked them for help? They seemed to enjoy making things grow, so maybe they would grant her this.

Setting the collected water back onto the muddy riverbank, Nimue closed her eyes and sought the whispers of the Hidden. _Come back to me,_ she thought. _Grant me your power once more._ Seconds ticked by. Nothing. Nimue felt her frustration building as the cheery forest noises around her remained unchanged. She tried to think of what Merlin had taught her when she had brought life to the ruined apple tree in the castle courtyard. _Create an intention, and surrender it to the Hidden._

Steadily, she inhaled and exhaled, then focused all her energy only on what she desired in that moment. _I want to relieve the monk’s pain. Lancelot. I want to ease Lancelot’s suffering._ Around her, the birdcalls and whistling breezes rose…. Then dimmed. A sigh seemed to rise from the earth, traveling up her legs and curling in her chest. It hummed gently, unfurling through Nimue’s limbs until she felt filled with the potential of growth, as if she might explode outward like a seed. Whispers pressed in on her, familiar and yet wholly new, some voices she had never heard harmonizing with those she recognized, their song wrapping her tightly in an embrace of breath.

In an instant, the hush untwined from her mind, and the sounds of the wood and river flooded back into her space. Nimue opened her eyes.

Standing not five paces from her was a young willow tree. Nimue smiled.

There was a whine and a thud into the tree behind her, and her stomach dropped in horror. She whipped her head to the side to catch a glimpse of a Red Paladin on the opposite bank, his bow still shuddering from the loosed arrow. When her eyes found him, he stumbled back in terror, shrieking, “The witch! The witch lives! Brothers, come, it’s the Wolf-Blood Witch!”

He had seen her create the willow tree. And now they knew she lived. Fear and rage filled Nimue’s heart, and she reached again for the voices that had surrounded her only seconds before, but they had gone. Again, in her moment of need, they abandoned her. As a scream of fury arose in her throat, a flurry of movement appeared behind the Paladin across the river, and a second arrow shot past her head. Nimue turned and lurched back into the trees.

She stumbled over the uneven ground and a hand shot out to steady her — Lancelot. He crouched in front of her, sword drawn and a powerful stance that looked as if he had never known injury. Behind him, Squirrel reached for Nimue with one hand while pointing urgently in the other direction. “The Green Knight says that way! Run!”

They ran. Behind them she could hear splashing and remembered how shallow she had noted the river was, how ideal for crossing at that point, and felt sick with fear. They were going to be caught, all because her pride had demanded she submit the Hidden to her will. All because she wanted to be the great sorceress Merlin had said she could be. Someone respected and feared, never shunned again. She had doomed them all for the sake of her ego, only days after they escaped.

Tears streaked down her face as she strained to run faster, with Squirrel just ahead darting through the trees and Lancelot pulling her forward by the hand. Behind her came the hiss and tumble of feet through the leaves and ferns, jumbled shouts and the occasional whistling of an arrow. Every time, the sound threatened to paralyze her, the memory of Iris’ arrows crippling her resolve.

She stumbled and Lancelot yanked her harshly to her feet, nearly dragging her over the forest floor. Another arrow shot past them. _We’re not going to make it,_ Nimue thought. _But Squirrel can get away if we fight them._ She looked forward to catch one last glimpse of the fleeing boy.

She saw him, just a few paces ahead. And beyond him, the unmistakable figure of the Green Knight.

A gasp beside her indicated Lancelot had seen him, too. Together, their momentum carried them forward toward the impossible figure. Nimue’s legs acted of their own accord, driven by sheer instinct to push her onward until she was sure she would collide with Gawain, who stood strangely still in his antlered helm and appeared almost.... fuzzy as they approached. In fact, he was almost too green even for his namesake. Why, it almost looked like—

Ahead of them, Squirrel suddenly tumbled out of sight. In the next instant, Nimue and Lancelot crashed into the Green Knight.

But there was no one there. No body. Only a storm of grass and leaves that burst as they passed through, swirling upward as they both fell down the steep hillside that had been hidden behind the strange figure. Nimue rolled, bumping over branches and mounds of moss, her hair wrapping around her face until she could not tell which direction was up.

When she finally came to a stop, she tried to rise to her knees but collapsed back into the fallen leaves as the world spun around her. Somewhere nearby, she could hear Squirrel gasping, “Nimue, Lancelot, _look!_ ” and she tried again to lift herself onto her knees. Looking up, Nimue waited for the world to steady, then stared in shock as she saw a maelstrom of greenery roaring above them where the Green Knight had been. From within the swirling leaves she heard the screams of the Paladins, echoing throughout the forest as the tiny group watched in horrified fascination.

A hand grasped her shoulder and Nimue whirled, Lancelot beside her slanting his sword into a defensive posture while Squirrel gave another shout. Before them crouched an old man, bald and bearded, shriveled and weathered with years but with eyes bright as stars. 

Those eyes darted between them excitedly, his face serious but with a kind smile playing about his lips. “Born in the dawn,” he spoke in a quiet but resonant voice, just barely carrying over the forest storm that raged above.

Nimue let out the breath she had been holding. “To pass in the twilight.”

The aged man nodded and held out a hand to her. “Come,” he intoned, “The Green Knight will buy you time, but minutes only. We must get you three to safety.”

With one final glance back at the green cyclone that howled through the trees at the top of the hill, Nimue and Lancelot snatched Squirrel’s hands and followed the stranger deeper into the wood. As they ran, she prayed that they would not be proven wrong for placing their trust in him.


	6. The Priest's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot, Nimue, and Percival discover the identity of their rescuer, and Lancelot is forced to relive painful memories which cause him to question his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your continuing support for my baby fic! I'm so glad so many people seem to be enjoying it so far!
> 
> This is the first of at least two chapters in which Lancelot will begin confronting his religious trauma, so please take that as a mild trigger warning if it is something you struggle with. I hope that everyone will feel that I have treated the character and subject respectfully.

The sword hilt in his palm pulled Lancelot forward like an anchor, his only sense of security as they ran through the trees after the mysterious old man. In his other hand, he dragged along the small boy, ignoring the child’s grunts of protest at being yanked across the ground by both of his new guardians. Based on how she seemed to hold Percival’s other hand in an iron grip, Lancelot sensed that the witch was also wary of their rescuer, and he appreciated her skepticism. At least if there was any danger to the boy, he could be certain she would react quickly to defend him.

For now though, they needed to get as far from his erstwhile brothers as possible, so they followed the strange man as the sounds of Fey magic were swallowed by the ever-denser trees behind them. At the sight of the Green Knight, or what looked like him, Lancelot had felt a pang of shame. The Fey knight had called him “brother,” had refused to betray him…. And yet somehow after death he had still returned to save the Weeping Monk. Of course realistically, the spectre was likely there for the young woman and child, but still Lancelot bent under the increasing debt that could never be paid. The Green Knight’s generosity was totally foreign to him, as was the witch’s willingness to heal him. Somewhere in the corner of his mind not immediately focused on survival, Lancelot clawed for understanding.

In time, the forest quieted and their pace slowed. The light beneath the canopy again began to dim, and he realized that it would soon be night again. Across his body, Lancelot’s wounds still ached, and he longed for rest, just once, uninterrupted by danger.

Ahead, the elderly man — who was surprisingly strong — continued on his path without looking back. Though they were several paces behind him, Lancelot knew from his scent that he was not Fey at all, but man-blood. He wondered if the witch could tell as well, or if she had simply assumed the man was Fey because he had used their greeting. It was, after all, a tactic he had used to draw Percival out of hiding back in Dewdenn. Before he had threatened him and then killed his would-be rescuers before his eyes. Lancelot pushed down a sudden rise of bile and concentrated on their path again.

They were still heading West but the terrain had become uneven and treacherous with stones that jutted up out of the soft earth. Slowing further, the group picked their way through the rocks and boulders until an exposed cliff loomed ahead of them. The old man turned left and led them along the curving edge of the rock face, which gradually formed an overhang above their heads, though Lancelot had to stoop more than the others. As they emerged from under the overhang, he realized they had walked around a wide column of rock, which on this side was a steep and mossy hill. And at the base of the hill was a modest hut, somewhat similar to the huts in Dewdenn where the witch and Percival had lived.

The old man suddenly stopped, gave a visible sigh of relief as his shoulders relaxed, and turned back to them with a smile. “Welcome to my home.” He turned and led them inside.

Lancelot glanced briefly toward the witch, whose face still hinted at mistrust of the man. She caught his eyes and gave a grim nod, indicating that he should go first since he still held their only weapon. Adjusting his grip on the sword, Lancelot ducked through the low doorway.

He saw it immediately on the opposite wall. A crucifix.

Dread slid into his stomach and in the next second he had the sword pointed at their host’s throat. The old man looked startled and confused, his hands rising defensively, then his eyes flicked to the cross and understanding dawned. “Ah…. yes, of course. Let me explain, please—”

“How you were going to betray us?” came the witch’s vicious snarl behind them. Lancelot felt Percival crouch at his elbow, clearly eager to fight their latest foe.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t,” the man responded calmly, making careful eye contact first with the witch and then with his assailant. “I am a member of the Fey Underground, but my faith grants me some immunity from the Red Paladins. It allows me to work right under their noses, you might say.”

“You’ll forgive us if we don’t believe you,” the girl snapped, and Lancelot angled the sword slightly higher to emphasize her words. It was strange, feeling that they understood one another’s intentions, that they were truly allies rather than enemies. Stranger still that he didn’t fear her attacking him again, at least not in this moment.

Their prey continued to look back at them steadily, a hint of pleading in his voice now. “Please, I understand your hesitation but I would like to explain myself before you choose to gut me. I am unarmed: you may ask me any question and I will answer truthfully.”

Lancelot risked a glance back at the witch, who was still glaring hard at the old man. For a brief second, he thought he saw green leaves begin to creep over her jaw, but in the next instant she relaxed and it seemed to be just a shadow. “Very well,” she said, almost regally, “But we will have this interview outside so that we can hear any approaching Paladins whom you may have invited here with the intent to trap us. And I assure you that if you do betray us, your god will not save you from our wrath.”

It was such a menacing speech that even Lancelot nearly shuddered. The old man, clearly not as immune to fear as he had seemed, swallowed and nodded, then allowed himself to be led outside at the point of the sword.

A few steps outside the hut, he sat himself carefully on a mossy mound that rolled into the hillside, eyes flicking between the three of them with something now much closer to curiosity. Facing him, the witch crossed her arms. “Speak. Why should we trust you?”

“I suppose,” began the old man, his eyes sliding to Lancelot, “At first because we have mutual acquaintances. The Green Knight, for one. But for another, Father Carden.”

“That association does not help your case,” Lancelot growled, the sick sensation returning at the utterance of his former mentor’s name.

“Indeed, and it’s an association I regret as well,” responded the man, his eyes darkening. “And I won’t presume to know your history with him, though I fear I can guess. You are the Weeping Monk, are you not?”

“Lancelot.” He shocked himself with how quickly he corrected to the long-forgotten name.

A slight smile passed over the man’s face. “Lancelot. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Father Dubric, and I was Carden’s teacher when he first joined our order as a boy, long before he formed the Red Paladins. Before he became a monster who defiled the name of our God with innocent blood.” The old man’s tone had changed now, his nostrils flaring as a pained rage overtook him. Lancelot stared, horrified and fascinated as he continued.

“Brother Carden always wanted to make something of himself, to impress Rome with his zeal for the faith. He was sure that casting out demons was the only way to gain the Holy Father’s attention, and I could not dissuade him no matter how often I preached humility and compassion. And unfortunately, it seemed that he was right, at least as far as Rome was concerned. When he started slaughtering Fey villages and recruiting more bloodthirsty fools to his cause, the praise for his deeds began trickling in from all corners of Christendom.” He spat the last word with bitter fury, speaking faster now as if he had been waiting years to tell his story.

“I tried everything to stop him, appealed to all our superiors and to every bishop I could reach, but no one listened. They ignored him at best, or encouraged him at worst, and before long he had gained enough power that he began to push for my excommunication.” Here he stopped, breathing heavily, his audience silent with rapt attention.

The priest — Dubric, he had said — turned away, and his voice was muffled when he next spoke. “To my great shame, I ran. I turned my back on my Church, on my flock, and I hid.” He turned glassy eyes to Lancelot, the trail of a tear leading into his coarse beard. “That would have been right before he attacked the Ash Folk.”

The sick feeling in Lancelot’s gut grew, and he swallowed carefully, determined not to vomit at the cold memories that came welling up at Dubric’s words. _The flames_ … always in his dreams were the flames, and the screams. He didn’t know any more which flames and screams came from his own village and which came from the many he had torched himself. He knew only that there was fire and horror, capped by the soothing voice of Father Carden, who assured him that all that suffering bent to a noble purpose, the cleansing of the kingdom and the saving of souls.

Dubric looked at him with undisguised pity, and Lancelot could sense the eyes of Percival and the witch on him as well. He shrugged slightly to again adjust his grip on the sword, muttering, “Go on.”

The old priest shook himself and again glanced down at his hands. “I wallowed in my fear and self-pity for many years, thinking myself powerless to stop the carnage and wondering why God had abandoned me. And then, he sent the strangest savior to my door…. The Green Knight, Gawain.” Beside him, the girl took a step forward at the name of her friend, and Percival settled deeply into the leaves where he sat on the ground. Leaning forward on his knees, Dubric now addressed them.

“A member of his Fey Guard had been injured, and they found my home and commandeered it for his recovery, putting me under house arrest so that I could not alert anyone to their presence. Though I was a captive, it seemed to me that they were an answer to my prayer, a way I could serve God even in my exile. I helped them heal their friend and in the end, I implored the Green Knight to let me help them. He did not trust me….” the old man chuckled, “and sent me on a series of rather absurd errands to prove my loyalty. I believe he greatly enjoyed coming up with ways for me to make a fool of myself. And when he left, I was sure that he was unconvinced and that I would never see him again. But, nearly a year later, he appeared again, this time with a Fey mother and child.”

Darkness had fallen now in the shadow of the rocky hill, and a cool breeze reminded Lancelot that he wore only his coarse cloak over his bare torso. Hunger would soon be gnawing at all their stomachs, and the fatigue of days of flight and illness pressed on him like an iron weight. Still, he was loath to interrupt the old priest’s story.

Dubric squinted in the darkness, his human eyes not as sharp as Lancelot’s, and continued: “I kept this young family for several days, hiding them when Paladin patrols would come by, then guided them to a checkpoint that the Green Knight had advised. There, another member of the Underground would take them on, though I never knew where they went and I did not ask in case I was questioned. And so it went for years afterward. The Paladins rarely came this deep into the forest, and when they did, they saw only my crucifix and believed that I was on their side.” His eyes shifted to where Lancelot stood. “It is perhaps only luck that I have never before been visited by the Weeping Monk, who surely would have discovered my secret.”

He looked at Lancelot a moment longer, his expression indecipherable, then this voice dropped to a hush. “Early this morning, there was a knock at my door. Red Paladins again, this time looking for word of the notorious Weeping Monk and a Fey child. I assured them I had neither seen nor heard of any such persons, but not five minutes after they left, there was another knock. Or…. a rapping sound. A rushing. It was strange….” No longer able to see in the darkness, the priest merely stared down now, lost in remembering. “I opened the door and found a storm of greenery outside my home. I had never seen Fey magic before, but this was…. not natural. And in a moment, those leaves settled into the form of the Green Knight. He said nothing, but pointed to the East. I kept waiting for him to give me instruction, but he simply kept pointing. Only when I followed his direction did he disappear.”

He tried again to look up at all of them, turning his head to where he thought they were. “I walked, heading East without knowing what I would find or if I was mad, until I came to the foot of a hill. I looked up and saw the Greek Knight again, and then an instant later three Fey tumbled at my feet. And so I did what I had always done for my friend, and I brought you here.”

Dubric sighed again, and Lancelot marveled at the man’s easy and simplistic faith, at his willingness to take everything at face value without question. It was this quality more than any other that convinced him that the man was not lying, although he wondered how he had managed to lie to the Red Paladins for years.

It was Percival who spoke up first. “Well Nimue, are we going to gut him or not? He called Father Carden a monster and I rather think he should get to live just for that. Maybe just take off a hand or two?”

“Stop it, Squirrel.” The witch sounded like she was trying to be stern but not really succeeding, gentleness creeping into her tone as it had that morning when she had cleaned Lancelot’s wounds. She paused another beat before addressing the priest. “I must say your story is convincing, Father— Dubric, was it? But we have been betrayed often of late and must be careful whom we trust. I will make you the same deal you claim Gawain made. You will allow us to use your home to rest and recover, and perhaps by the time we depart, you will have convinced us not to kill you.”

“Of course,” Dubric responded respectfully. “Can I invite you inside so that we can make a fire and perhaps see one another’s faces again?”

“I rather like not seeing your ugly faces— Ow!” Percival snarked as the witch shoved him good-naturedly and the priest chuckled. After a moment’s pause, he stood and moved through the dark by memory, ducking again into the hut with the others following after.

Inside, it truly was too dark even for Fey eyes to see, and Lancelot continued to grip his sword despite his growing confidence that he wouldn’t need to use it immediately. In a few moments, a fire had started in the small hearth, and the warm glow lit each exhausted face with flickering light. Dubric busied himself in a corner of the hut, and in another moment returned with some salted fish for each of them. As they ate, Lancelot felt his tension easing, the tip of the sword falling into the dirt floor and the familiar ache of exhaustion settling into his limbs.

As he swallowed the last of his fish, Lancelot noticed the priest studying him, and turned his eyes away from the scrutiny. Dubric seemed to notice his discomfort and turned his attention to the girl and child, instead. “May I ask what names you wish to be called while you are here? It will be easier if I can address you as you prefer.”

There was a pause while Lancelot wondered if the young woman would reveal she was a notorious witch, or even the “Fey Queen.” But to his surprise, she gave the name that he had heard Percival use already. “You may call me Nimue.”

“Welcome, Nimue,” Dubric again addressed her with a tone of respect, her prior command of the situation clearly having had an effect. He spoke next to the boy. “And you, lad? What may I call you?”

Another pause. Lancelot recalled how the child had insisted he did not like his true name, expecting that he would use the animal name the witch seemed so fond of, but he was yet again startled when the boy responded, “I’m Percival, a Knight of the Fey.”

“Knight of the Fey, is that so?” the priest maintained his serious tone, but there was a ripple of merriment somewhere underneath his words.

“Yes,” Percival said proudly, puffing out his chest and trying to make himself look taller. “The Green Knight made me a knight before he— before he….” The child trailed off and his body sagged with sorrow.

Silence settled over the hut, and Lancelot wondered if the priest had believed his friend was still alive and simply using Fey magic, or if he understood that the Green Knight was dead. But Dubric seemed wholly focused on the boy before him. He reached out and placed a hand on Percival’s shoulder, smiling gently as the child looked up at him. “Welcome, Sir Percival,” he said quietly. “It is an honor to meet you.”

At the title, the little boy’s entire face lit up and he looked as if he would lift right off the floor in excitement. “ _Sir_ Percival, I like that! You hear that, Nimue? It’s _Sir_ Percival. _Sir_ Percival, got it, Lancelot? _Sir_ —”

“Yes, _Sir_ Percival, we got it,” Nimue responded irritably, though not without the same hint of mirth that the priest had had.

Dubric smiled broadly, then began preparing the hut for them to sleep. He brought out three bedrolls, presumably from housing other Fey refugees, and they each lay one down, with Nimue and Percival choosing to share. As Lancelot sheathed his sword and looked for a place to set it within reach, the girl approached him timidly and asked “How is your pain?”

In truth, he felt the burning of the wounds across his skin, but it was not as bad as it had been the day before, so he nearly lied and said there was nothing. But in the dim firelight, something in her eyes appeared almost like real concern, and he hesitated to deceive her. Still, he was not accustomed to sharing his hurts, so he settled for a mumbled “Better than it was.”

She seemed to see right through that and winced. “I’m sorry I don’t have much for relief. I was hoping to find willow bark, but….” It took Lancelot a moment to realize the significance of what she had said. _Willow bark_ …. Today at the river, when she had caused the tree to grow which had given them away…. Hadn’t it been a willow tree? Had she grown it specifically to give him relief from his pain?

Lancelot was so unsettled by the thought that she would do such a thing that he fell completely silent, simply staring at her face. Less than two days ago, she had tried to kill him. With a tree. And now she was summoning trees merely to provide him comfort? It made no sense. He had no frame of reference for such actions other than someone who wanted something from him, or wanted to control him, like Father Carden.

Except the Green Knight. And except for Percival. Both had shown care for him with very little reason to do so, and much to lose. Gawain had died for such loyalty, and Percival had attempted to challenge the entire Trinity Guard with a sword he could barely lift. Now the Wolf-Blood Witch wanted to ease his pain. Who _were_ these strange creatures? And could he really be one of them if such selflessness was so unthinkable to him?

The awkward silence stretched on a moment longer, and then the girl said, “Well, wake me if it becomes unbearable and I will do what I can. But tomorrow you must wash every cut well.”

Lancelot grunted something that he hoped sounded like assent, and the girl — Nimue — turned away to lie down with Percival, who naturally was already snoring. Father Dubric too had settled onto his pallet, and the fire had gradually begun to die in the hearth. Outside the hut, the sounds of the night forest rose in a soothing hum, interrupted only occasionally by an owl’s hoot or a cricket’s chirp.

Lowering himself painfully onto his bedroll, Lancelot wondered if he would sleep tonight at all. The priest’s story rattled around in his mind, along with Nimue’s inexplicable concern for his welfare, and behind it all murmured the low voice of Father Carden. It was always the voice of his dreams and his nightmares, kindly yet menacing, speaking soothingly of salvation while promising damnation in the same breath. Lancelot longed desperately for rest, but feared sinking into that voice, the one that would drown him with the memory of hellfire.

He lay in the darkness as the breathing of the others slowed, trying to pray but never making it more than a few words before trailing off. What did his prayers matter now? God had abandoned him as surely as he had abandoned God, and the Fey gods were unknown to him. They would not recognize him anyway, after he had killed so many of their children. There were no powers in this world or any other who would see him as anything more than what he was: a demon, a murderer, and a traitor. Damned, lost, and alone.

Somewhere behind his eyes, tears threatened to make their way forward, and Lancelot pushed them back with a vicious will. _Weeping Monk indeed,_ he thought. _The one who cries. I have not earned the luxury of tears. Who can cry with the flames of Hell on his face?_

He slept, finally, with pain burning his skin and the sonorous voice of Father Carden smoldering in his mind.


	7. Old Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot learns that he may share more in common with Nimue than he realized as he continues to grapple with the trauma of his childhood with Father Carden. His physical wounds may heal, but will his soul ever recover?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am so sorry this chapter took so long! August was a very difficult month for me as the exhaustion of dealing with both the pandemic and some family issues finally caught up with me and my health took a turn for the horrifically painful. I've spent quite a bit of the last few weeks simply bedridden. But your beautiful comments and kudos were so encouraging to me, so I finally pushed through and finished this chapter!
> 
> It might be a bit clunky but I hope that you feel it does justice to Lancelot's journey to healing! Very excited (and nervous) to know what you all think!
> 
> *Content Warning* for mildly graphic description of past child abuse

_“Come, my son. It is only flesh, and demon flesh after all. Better to scour the sin from your soul than to be always clothed in evil.”_

_Father Carden’s strong, weathered hand held out the scourge, and Lancelot’s eyes rose to his kindly face. The old man smiled in his cherubic way, waiting patiently for the child to take the whip in his hand. Not wanting to disappoint him, the boy gripped the handle in his own small palm and drew it over his shoulder, pausing to look back into Carden’s eyes for approval._

_“Yes, that’s right,” the priest purred coaxingly, “The pain will cleanse you. It will lead you nearer to salvation, and one day, there will be none of the demon left, and you will be truly free. Make the first lash now, my lad, and thank God for the pain.”_

_Lancelot took a single deep breath and willed his arm not to shake. Then, he swung the scourge and braced for the impact._

_It was no sting, but a searing lash of fire that burned across his back as the cord made contact. The shock of it made him nearly cry out in agony, but with Father Carden’s eyes on him, the boy steeled himself to remain silent. The old priest’s mustache curled upward with satisfaction, and Lancelot swung the scourge again. Once more the horrible pain reverberated through his small body, and he gulped, then widened his stance to maintain his balance._

_Another lash, and another, and now his eyes were too full of tears to see Father Carden’s face, though he heard his voice murmuring “Good, lad, good. Feel the demon-flesh fall from your bones and know that you may one day be saved.” Wondering how many lashes that would take, Lancelot swung the scourge with renewed vigor, sucking in a breath as it tore through his back. Soon, perhaps, Father would stop him. Soon, the pain would cease and the promised peace would come…._

It was full daylight when Lancelot awoke in the hut, making it the third day in a row he had slept past sunrise. Though it might be natural for his body to require more sleep as he recovered from his wounds, the feeling of intense vulnerability unsettled him. Again gripping his sheathed sword for comfort, the young man rolled his aching body to a seated position and glanced around the hut.

He was alone, though the other bedrolls remained out as though their occupants had only recently risen. A shallow bowl with a few handfuls of berries sat on a low table, along with several clumps of dandelion and other edible greens. Lancelot’s stomach growled, wishing for something more substantial to eat, when Father Dubric suddenly ducked through the open door.

The monk flinched from instinct, but the old priest merely smiled. “Good morning, Lancelot. I hope you are feeling well-rested today.” Lancelot did not respond, his eyes following Dubric as he swung a pair of rabbits onto the table and reached for a large knife.

As he began to clean and skin the meat, he spoke again: “Nimue and Percival have gone down to the bathing pool. Would you mind taking them those fresh clothes?” He gestured to a small pile resting on one of the bedrolls. “There is a shirt for you as well, though it may fit awkwardly since its last owner had wings.” The priest grinned at him, but Lancelot remained stiffly seated, trying to banish comparisons to Father Carden from his mind. The memory of his dream roiled his empty stomach.

Dubric seemed to sense his discomfort, saying lightly “Perhaps you need more rest. I can take the–“

“No, I’ll do it.” Lancelot stood, trying not to sway as his wounds throbbed anew with the movement. “Where is the…. bathing pool?”

The priest had returned his attention to the rabbits, making expert cuts with his knife. “Turn right out of the door and go straight ahead, about sixty paces northward. Mind the goats; the nanny has been quite cross of late.”

The mundane conversation seemed so strange to Lancelot’s ears. Most people were too intimidated by the Weeping Monk to speak directly to him, so he typically moved in silence unless he chose to give an order or if there was a screaming victim at hand. But here was their host, offering food and clothing along with advice not to startle the livestock. Lancelot felt nearly as if he were someone else, someone without a notorious reputation as a cold-blooded killer.

Scooping the pile of clothes into one arm, he stepped outside and followed the path Dubric had recommended. The crisp morning air nipped at his exposed wounds, especially the ones still irritated by the coarse and dirty cloak draped over his shoulders. As those aches made themselves felt once again, Lancelot could not help but recall his nightmare. Father Carden had seemed so kind when he had first offered his young protege the whip, which had at that time appeared as a practical tool for salvation. But now, Carden was gone, and all that remained of his lessons was pain.

Stepping carefully over the rocky ground, Lancelot heard a perturbed braying up ahead. In another moment, he approached a small paddock where a gray nanny goat bleated her clear displeasure. Behind her gamboled a young kid who seemed not at all bothered by its mother’s complaints, and behind that lay a sleeping ram. Lancelot observed them a moment until the sound of small, wet feet heralded the approach of Percival, soaked through and muttering irritatedly.

“Smelly urchin my arse, you don’t exactly smell like roses yourself, _Your Highness…._ ” He caught sight of Lancelot, glared and tilted his head to one side, smacking the other in an effort to drain the water from his ear. “She dunked me. Nearly tore my skin off scrubbing. I’m seriously considering changing my allegiance now. Do you think the Vikings need a scout?”

In spite of himself, Lancelot felt a smile creeping across his face at the boy’s characteristic impudence. “The Northmen prefer intimidation to stealth, so I doubt they waste much time scouting. But is it true that the great _Sir Percival_ was defeated by a bath?”

The child snorted and pushed past him, dripping and stomping noisily back toward the hut. Lancelot continued on, following Percival’s wet footprints to where a few large boulders jutted up from the earth. Placing his foot atop one, he leaned forward and surveyed Dubric’s bathing pool.

It was clever, certainly: the priest had dug a small canal from the river just beyond and directed it under the trees to where the boulders formed a mossy ledge. From there, the water fell a short distance into a pool the length of two men, then into another canal on the other side that led back to the river. This kept the water moving, preventing the pool from becoming stagnant.

As he looked down, Lancelot suddenly realized that he didn’t see the witch – Nimue – anywhere. A foreign knot of concern formed in his stomach, and he leaned farther over the ledge, scanning the surrounding trees for any sign of her. Then, a flurry of bubbles rose from the center of the pool, and an instant later a head of long dark hair broke the surface.

Nimue was facing away from him, but as she pulled her hair in front of her shoulder, Lancelot’s stomach formed another tight knot, this time for an entirely different reason: she was naked. Though he knew he should look away, the young man found himself rooted to the spot, fascinated by the leisurely way she stroked her hair, combing through the dark tresses with delicate fingers. He had never seen a woman like this.

Any moment now, Nimue would turn and see him watching her, and then Lancelot was pretty sure she wouldn’t give a damn about their truce and would immediately try to kill him. Just as he was about to tear his eyes away and retreat, she rose a little higher out of the water into a patch of sunlight winking through the trees, and Lancelot swallowed a gasp. Across her back were shining red scars, signs of three deep slashes from what must have been years before. A distant pain, forever etched into her smooth flesh.

On his own back, the old scars and new wounds throbbed as if in response to hers, and his gut curled tighter on itself. Finally tearing himself away, he set the pile of clothes on a large dry rock and staggered several paces from the path. Facing away from the pool and leaning against a tree, Lancelot tried to catch his breath. Realistically, he knew it meant nothing, that most people had scars of one kind or another, but still his heart pounded in his ears with the refrain: _She knows, she knows, she knows…._

Among the Paladins, Lancelot had always been alone. The demon, the one marked by darkness and suffering, cursed to forever fight the battle for salvation alone. Father Carden had often told him that he could put him on the path but would not walk it for him, or with him. It was his fate to always face the trials of life without anyone by his side, lest they be tainted by his darkness. Lancelot had accepted this, even embraced it at times, since it became easier to strike down the Fey when he could see none of himself in them.

Until he met Percival. From the beginning, the boy had reflected back at his captor the fierce and playful child he once was or could have been. His love for horses, foolish bravery, and clever quips all reminded Lancelot that his life would have been very different if he had not been taken by Father Carden. _He_ would have been very different. And the person he might have been continued to haunt him even after he had let Percival go.

Now, he saw himself in Nimue, the Wolf-Blood Witch. Memories washed over him of each time he had caught her scent as the Paladins had hunted her, how it had felt so eerily familiar each time. There was a darkness in her scent that Lancelot knew intimately, something both terrifying and comforting, and it tantalized him as he had pursued her trail through the Fey lands.

As if hearing his thoughts, that scent suddenly filled the air around him, and he flinched at the sound of Nimue’s voice. “Have you been waiting long?”

Afraid to look at her for fear that she might still be undressed, he kept his eyes on the ground and shook his head. Her footsteps came nearer until he could see her in his peripheral vision, fully dressed in the clothes he had left for her. He let out the breath he had been holding.

“There’s one shirt left for you. I would just wash everything else first and then let it dry while you bathe.” Lancelot nodded awkwardly, still determined not to look at her. He heard her shift her weight from side to side, almost nervously. “Do you…. do you need any help?”

 _Help? With…. bathing?_ Lancelot’s face burned and he stiffly shook his head, silently begging her to leave him alone.

“Right. Okay, well…. call if you need anything.” There was a pause, and Lancelot kept his eyes firmly on the earth, until her footsteps mercifully retreated back toward the hut.

Waiting a moment to be sure she had gone, the young man rose and made his way down to the pool. With a final nervous glance around, he peeled off his stinking clothes and set to scrubbing them on a rock at the edge of the pool. Then, lying them in a nearby patch of sunlight, he slid into the water.

It was surprisingly cold, reminding him that Summer was ending and that it would soon be time for the harvest across Britannia. Lancelot’s own empty stomach groaned, and he realized with a twist of regret that he had burned most of what would have been harvested in the coming weeks. Many Fey and even many humans might starve because of his actions, and then it wouldn’t matter that he had defied the Paladins to save one Fey child. The blood on his hands could never truly be washed away.

At that thought, he began scrubbing his body almost violently, scraping the grime from his skin until it was raw and nearly bled again. For a brief instant, Lancelot longed for the scourge in his hand. The punishing bite of the lash would be welcome, would be at least some small hint of the pain he deserved for destroying so many lives. Father Carden had been wrong about many things, but perhaps he was right about suffering: maybe it was the only thing that could truly cleanse him.

The sun rose higher, and Lancelot pulled himself from the pool and checked his clothes. They were mostly dry, so he pulled on his trousers and then inspected the new shirt. As Dubric had said, it was oddly-shaped, with a panel roughly sewn over the back where the prior owner’s wings must have protruded. But it was better than no shirt at all. He raised his arms to pull it over his head.

“I’ll need to treat those wounds before you finish getting dressed.”

Lancelot nearly fell into the pool at the sound of Nimue’s voice behind him. He whirled and instinctively dropped into a fighting stance, despite the fact that his sword was still resting on the ground a few steps away. Standing atop the boulders where he himself had spied on her earlier, she held a small bowl in one hand and a wad of fabric in the other. When he didn’t respond, she stepped to the side and made her way down to him.

As Nimue approached, he thought for a moment that her cheeks appeared flushed, as if she had been running. Or…. had she spied on him, too? How much had she seen? The pit in his empty stomach returned with a vengeance, and Lancelot prayed to any god that might hear him that his mortification not show on his face.

His eyes followed her until she stood before him and nodded at the bowl in her hand. “I made a new poultice, and I found some willow bark for the pain. Sit down and it will only take a moment.”

Lancelot held her gaze a second longer, still struggling to believe that there was no trick or intent to harm him, then he turned and sat down again. He felt Nimue moving behind him, then a hand snaked over his shoulder, holding a chunk of willow bark. “Here, chew.” He took it from her and put it in his mouth, grateful to have an excuse not to speak.

Soft fingertips brushed his back, dabbing a cooling poultice over his wounds. As his breathing slowed and deepened, Lancelot felt enveloped by her heady scent, a strange sensation of peace and safety laced with darkness. It was similar somehow to submerging himself in water, to surrendering to a strong current that might carry him to life or death depending on its whim. As the minutes passed, the streaks on his back gradually ceased pulsing with pain, and his tension eased until he found his head lolling on his shoulder.

“These are healing well,” Nimue said lightly, laying a strip of fabric across his shoulders. “As long as you don’t reopen them, you should be safe to travel in two or three days.” She wound the cloth under his arm and held it there for a second. Realizing she wanted his help wrapping the bandage, Lancelot took the roll and pulled it to the other side of his body, passing it back to her again. As she leaned close to wrap him a second time, he suppressed a shudder at the intimacy of her touch. He wondered if Nimue too considered the similarity of their scars, whether she felt any whisper of familiarity at the sight.

There was a light tickle as she tucked the edge of the bandage in place, and Lancelot was suddenly very aware of the silence. Taking the willow bark from his mouth, he responded to her assessment of his travel-readiness: “Safe to travel…. where? Where will you go?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say “we.”

“I need to find Arthur and the Fey,” she responded, handing him the shirt. Lancelot pulled it over his head and turned to face her as she continued, “I bought their safety with the promise of the Wolf-Blood Witch and the Sword of Power, and now Uther has neither. It’s only a matter of time before he scurries back into the arms of the Church.” Nimue stared down into the empty bowl, biting her lip and frowning as if trying to work out a puzzle.

Lancelot swallowed, mesmerized by her subtle facial expressions, when his stomach suddenly gave an embarrassingly loud growl. Nimue’s head snapped up and her mouth curved into a tiny grin. “Aye, we’re well-overdue for breakfast. Come on.”

They walked side-by-side on the rocky path, passing the paddock where the nanny goat seemed to have finally calmed herself. Lancelot was content to be silent as he always was, but as the hut came into view through the trees, Nimue turned to him again. “You’re coming with us, then? There’s nowhere else you want to go?”

A stab of anxiety returned to his stomach, and he sank slightly. “There’s…. no place for me anywhere. But the Paladins will be searching for you and Percival. With me, you have an advantage. I can help you find your people, safely.”

She considered him, then looked toward the hut, again chewing on her lip. “They won’t welcome you, you know. The Fey.” Her gaze returned to him and she fixed Lancelot with searing blue eyes filled both with judgement and with pity. “To them, you’re just the monster who murdered their families and burned their homes. Even if they learn you are Fey, they will brand you a traitor. When we find them, you’ll have to find somewhere else to go.”

Lancelot’s mouth went dry. A buzzing filled his ears. It was the nightmare he’d imagined, but hearing it stated so plainly made him sick with certainty. Of course they would hate him, as they should. He was a fool for ever imagining otherwise.

In the end, he would be alone. Forever.

“Ah, Nimue and Lancelot. Would you care to join us for breakfast before this young lad eats everything?” Father Dubric’s voice reached them as if from the end of a long tunnel. Nimue turned and stepped toward him as Lancelot stood dumbly, wanting to run but unable to move. At his side, his fist clenched and unclenched, craving the handle of a scourge. _Pain, I need pain._

“Really, Lancelot, can I have your portion? You’re not hungry?” He turned toward Percival’s voice and found the boy sitting on the ground, watching him over the edge of a trencher as he vigorously licked the last of his breakfast off of it.

In truth, his ravenous appetite had vanished, but Father Dubric stood there with a kind smile, holding out a trencher full of meat and greens, and Lancelot could not refuse. He shuffled mechanically over to the old priest and took the food with a mumbled thanks. Oblivious to the flavor, he chewed slowly and deliberately, staring intently at the ground.

Movements danced at the edge of his peripheral vision as Father Dubric passed in and out of the hut, carrying something or other. He ignored it until Nimue asked, “Father, aren’t you going to eat?”

Lancelot turned to the side and was startled to see Dubric clearly laying out the beginnings of a Mass on a smooth stump. The old man smiled and murmured “Aye, but I must nourish my spirit first. I hope you don’t mind.”

Nimue looked uncomfortable, but she responded “Oh…. no, of course not. Would you like us to give you some privacy?”

“Not at all, unless you prefer not to observe. This will take only a few moments.” His eyes shifted to Lancelot, apprehensive even as his voice remained casual. “Will you be joining me, young man?”

Yet again, Lancelot felt a hard twist in his gut as memories of many Masses with Father Carden spiraled across his mind. He swallowed to keep his tone even. “No, thank you.”

With a small nod, Dubric returned his attention to his makeshift altar and began quietly murmuring in Latin. Lancelot tried to block out the words that he knew by heart, but they rolled over one another in his ears and rang in his memory even when the priest’s voice dropped too low to hear. Faster and faster his fists clenched, desperate to grip a weapon that would bring the needed suffering. Anything, anything to cleanse the flesh that he could not escape, the demon form that trapped him, now and always.

Just as Father Dubric had said, his celebration took only moments, and he was soon gathering up his cup and cloth, returning them to the hut. When he reemerged, Percival was leaning over the altar-stump, studying it. “Did you cut this tree down just to use it for that?”

Dubric ran a hand over the smooth stump. “Well, I also needed firewood. It was my first winter here and I could barely get outside my door, so I had to use what was nearby.” His eyes flicked to Percival and he grinned, showing two missing teeth. “Stupid, though. The thing was monstrous and nearly crushed my home when it fell. Must’ve been at least six hundred years old.”

Percival gaped. “Six hundred? Don’t be daft, trees don’t last that long.”

“Well, this one clearly says it did.” Dubric gestured to the stump.

Percival stared at the priest, then at the stump, and back at the priest. “Not sure how to tell you this, mate, but if trees are talking to you, you might be a pagan.”

The old man laughed and shook his head, pointing again to the stump. “No lad, I mean the rings. Haven’t you ever counted rings on a tree before? Look here….” Percival leaned over the stump with a skeptical eye. “Here, the dark rings at the center are the young growth, then they grow lighter as the tree matures. Each ring is a season: the lighter ones are the Spring growth, while the darker are the Autumn. You simply count the rings and you can estimate how old the tree is.”

Percival seemed fascinated now, leaning farther over the stump and squinting sharply at what Father Dubric described. “You can even tell when a drought occurred, or when it was an especially wet year. See? Plentiful rainfall means more growth, so these rings are wider, while a drought means less growth and thinner rings, like these.”

Nodding intently, the child suddenly jabbed a finger at the stump. “And what are these black gaps?” he asked.

There was the briefest pause, then Dubric answered “Those are scars.”

Percival’s head whipped up, skeptical again. “Scars?”

“From fire. It must have swept through here and destroyed many of the younger, less hardy trees. Likely most of the forest, as none of these” — he waved a hand around them — “are nearly this old.” The priest dropped his hand and gently laid a palm on the stump’s surface, stroking it almost as if to soothe some hurt. “This tree saw terrible devastation, and it carried the scars for the rest of its life. But see? There are years, centuries even, of new growth after the fire. It survived, and lived long enough to see the rest of the forest return and thrive.”

For a moment, Percival did not reply. The sounds of the forest filled the space: birdcalls, insects, wind through the leaves and the distant rushing river, even the bleating of the goats. Then, it seemed to Lancelot that they suddenly dimmed into silence, as if a cloth had been pressed over his ears. The hush settled around him like a fog, diaphanous and yet thick as tar.

A breath sighed through the trees. Then, another. A whisper. More whispers, rising into a humming chorus that passed through his body and billowed up into the canopy, rising and rising until Lancelot simply forgot who and where he was. A tree, a voice. Many trees, many voices. He sighed and soared.

“Damn shame you cut it down, then.” Percival’s voice cut through the hushed symphony and brought Lancelot crashing back into reality. He blinked and focused again on the boy, who was still leaning over the old stump, studying it with clear fascination. Lancelot’s eyes flicked upward, and he realized with a start that both Dubric and Nimue, standing just behind him, were staring directly at him.

What had happened? Had he entered a trance? Said something he didn’t remember? The sick feeling of anxiety returned, and his hand again itched for the whip. _I need the pain, I need it!_ Across the mossy space, Nimue and the priest looked away, and Lancelot tried to think of some excuse to escape.

He focused on the stump, and Father Dubric’s story played in his mind. _Firewood, that’s it._ He saw an axe resting against the side of the hut and made for it with brisk steps. “I’m going to gather firewood for supper” he husked, taking the handle in his palm and avoiding their eyes. “I’ll be back before sundown.”

Without another look back at anyone, he strode into the trees.

_The smell of scorched flesh and terror blanketed the tiny tent. The boy’s eyes watered at the stench, recognizing the distinct odor of Fey flesh, though the scent of fear was common to all species. Before him, Brother Salt washed his hands methodically as two other red-robed Paladins dragged away the smoldering remains of his victim._

_Perhaps that was the last one today. Perhaps now, he would be allowed to leave the tent and its horrific stench, and when he was allowed into the woods to relieve himself he could vomit until he was dry. He only needed to wait, patiently, a few moments longer._

_“I think that is quite enough for today,” Brother Salt intoned, wiping his hands on a cloth. Lancelot’s heart leapt, but he remained still. Patient._

_A hand fell on his shoulder. “If we could trouble you, Brother, I was hoping to give the lad one further lesson this day.” Father Carden’s voice, slightly jovial as always, made the child’s blood run cold._

_“Of course, Father. What did you have in mind?”_

_“I have often spoken to our young friend of the value of pain and how cleansing the flesh of sin is pleasing to God. Though observing your holy work has no doubt demonstrated this admirably, experience is after all the best teacher.”_

_Lancelot smelled fear again, but this time, it was his own. His heart slammed against his ribs and pounded in his ears, drowning out whatever answer Brother Salt gave. He was aware of being guided forward toward the glowing embers that cradled a long branding iron, still smelling faintly of boiled Feyskin. The hand on his shoulder turned him around and pulled down the neck of his tunic, revealing his most recent lashmarks._

_“Remember, boy, it is only flesh. Praise God for the heavenly fire that will burn away your sinful nature. Brother Salt, begin.”_

_Patience, the child thought as he heard the crack of sparks behind him and felt the approaching heat of the iron. I must only be patient…._

Lancelot bolted up from his bedroll, body soaked with sweat and the scent of smoke still thick in his nostrils. On the other side of the hut, the remains of a fire smoldered in the hearth, the hellish glow winking at him as if to mock his nightmare.

“You’re safe, young man,” came a whispered voice from the shadows beyond the hearth. The flickering light limned Father Dubric’s weathered face, his expression weary and pained as he sat awkwardly on a small stool, his back to the wall. Lancelot dragged a hand down his own face, wiping away the cold sweat and trying to slow his ragged breathing.

He glanced over at where Nimue and Percival still slept, apparently unbothered by terrible dreams or memories. Raising his eyes to the one small window in the hut wall, he realized for the first time that it was raining outside, the soft din of falling droplets providing a soothing backdrop to the sounds of the nighttime forest.

There would be no more sleep for him tonight. Lancelot turned back to the figure of the priest hunched along the wall, and was surprised to see the old man beckon him to come closer. Cautiously stepping around the sleeping woman and child, Lancelot crept nearer the hearth and sat on the other open stool opposite Dubric, who now seemed to be massaging his leg with a grimace.

“Old wound,” he murmured by way of explanation, grunting as his hand passed over his knee. His eyes lifted to Lancelot’s face. “I see I’m not the only one to carry such pains. This is the third night in a row you’ve had nightmares.”

Lancelot was grateful for the darkness as he was sure he’d colored in embarrassment, but Dubric continued, “I rarely sleep when I have guests. The Paladins have only once visited me in the night but I always fear them, and my injury flares up with anxiety.” He nodded back toward the bedrolls. “You’ve thrashed about each night as if trying to escape, but this is the first time you’ve woken.” He paused and studied the young man’s face carefully in the faint firelight.

Lancelot was unsure what Dubric expected him to say. He was unaccustomed to speaking openly about his thoughts with anyone, or speaking much at all, and the priest was after all a stranger. A stranger who reminded him far too much of Father Carden. At that thought, Lancelot looked up. “Do you know that Father Carden is dead?”

Dubric didn’t seem to react at all. “I did not. Did you kill him?”

“No,” Lancelot turned to look at Nimue’s sleeping form. “She did.”

“Interesting.” The old man continued massaging his leg. “May I infer that you wish it had been you?”

Lancelot blinked at him. The silence stretched in clear confirmation of Dubric’s words.

“I can imagine what kind of mentor Carden was,” the old priest growled, glaring at his bad knee. “And I suspect that, knowingly or not, you long harbored fantasies of taking your revenge. It would be only natural. Now that the girl has destroyed him first, she has robbed you of closure. Carden haunts you.”

The sour pit in Lancelot’s gut had returned at Dubric’s uncanny insight. The truth of his words fell with the finality of an executioner’s blade, and the young man stared into the darkness without end. He would never escape Carden. Never.

“But he would haunt you if you had killed him, only in far more horrible ways than what you suffer now. You may have been denied vengeance, but you were spared the pain and guilt of killing someone who was as a father to you. In time, you will heal.”

 _“He tortured me,”_ Lancelot spat, his voice rising. Across the hut, Nimue stirred and the two men fell silent. After a moment, her breathing grew even again and she lay still. Turning back to the old man, Lancelot whispered with all the venom that had roiled his blood for years, “He burned me, beat me, forced me to beat myself, made me watch while others were tortured, and made me kill until I liked it. He made me a monster. No one heals from that.” He stopped abruptly, trying to catch his breath.

Father Dubric had stopped rubbing his leg and had remained very still throughout the young man’s outburst, watching him with rapt attention. Lancelot expected him to protest with more saccharine platitudes, but instead the old priest seemed to change the subject. “May I ask why you don’t partake of the sacraments?”

Taken aback, it took Lancelot a moment to answer. “Because I don’t believe in the Christian god any more.”

Dubric again began kneading the flesh of his leg. “Any other reason?”

“I’ve never been baptized.”

That got a reaction, as the old priest’s head jerked up and he stared at Lancelot in undisguised shock. “What? Carden didn’t baptize you?”

“He said it would be a sacrilege to baptize a demon.”

“That son of a bitch,” Dubric snarled, a little too loudly. On his bedroll, Percival grunted and flung an arm over his head. The two men again stilled until the boy began snoring softly.

The priest was still glaring hard into the darkness, all thought of his pained leg seemingly forgotten. He glanced up at Lancelot. “Did you _want_ to be baptized?”

Another long silence passed as the young man considered. “I did once, when I thought it meant I would be accepted. I thought it would make me part of…. Part of a family.” His voice trailed off on the final word, sobered by the reminder of how quickly Gawain had taken to calling him “brother.” He turned away, grateful again that the darkness hid most of his expressions.

“Hmm,” Dubric’s face was still twisted with clear fury, his hands balled into fists on his knees. Finally, he seemed to come back to himself and relaxed, turning to face Lancelot even as the younger man avoided his eye. When he next spoke, his voice was so soft that Lancelot strained to hear him. “He had no right to deny you a sacrament like that. It was wrong, and though my faith bids me to pray for his soul—” at this Dubric ground his teeth, “I feel certain that Carden is now paying dearly for his attempt to deny grace to any of God’s children.”

The old man leaned forward, his expression now changing to one of almost pleading, voice still hushed with fervor. “You _are_ part of a family, Lancelot. I will pray that you experience the love of family here on earth, as well as in heaven.” His eyes shifted briefly to the sleeping figures on the other side of the hut and one corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “Though I think you are well on your way, there.”

Lancelot followed his gaze to where Percival still lay snoring with his limbs flung wide, and Nimue beyond him slept peacefully, her hair splayed out across her mat. The tight knot in his stomach slowly began to unclench, even as his mind scoffed at the priest’s insinuation.

Outside, the rain was beginning to ease, and several overeager birds began calling to one another, even though there was still no hint of daylight. Father Dubric smiled gently at Lancelot and jerked his chin again toward the bedrolls. “Come, let us at least pretend to sleep so that we don’t worry our companions overmuch, aye?”

After helping the aging priest to cross to his own mat, Lancelot laid down on his own. As the hut gradually began to fill with predawn light, he watched the rise and fall of Percival’s chest and the intermittent fluttering of Nimue’s eyelashes, until his own eyes felt heavy enough to drift closed, just for a few moments.

The brisk morning air snapped against Lancelot’s exposed skin as he checked the contents of his pack and secured his sword once more to his hip. Around him, birdcalls echoed through a forest still damp and dripping from the previous night’s rainfall. Everything appeared crisp and vibrant in the cool morning light, and the moisture in the air intensified every scent until they made him almost dizzy.

Somewhere down the path to the bathing pool, a goat bleated with irritation, likely at Percival who had insisted on saying goodbye before they left. Muffled voices came from inside the hut, where Nimue was packing the last of the medicinals she had collected and Father Dubric was trying to hide more food in her bag. Lancelot waited beside the altar stump, patiently as always, as the little party prepared to continue on in their search for the Fey.

The voices in the hut suddenly rose sharply, and in the next instant Nimue burst out of the door, snapping over her shoulder “No, absolutely not. We will acquire what we need without pillaging your treasures.”

Father Dubric followed her a moment later, emerging from his hut with an enormous gold monstrance held in his hands. Even Lancelot’s eyes bulged at the sight of the precious object, which surely was worth enough to afford the priest a far better living than the little hovel he had chosen.

Dubric stubbornly held the heavy monstrance out to the Fey girl, arguing “You’re not pillaging anything, I’m giving it to you. It’s growing cold and you’ll need better clothing, horses, a night or two in a tavern and more besides to bribe those tavern keepers into silence. Sell this when you reach Kingsbridge and it will keep you safe until you find the Fey.”

 _“No”_ Nimue growled, looking every bit the Wolf-Blood Witch with ice in her eyes and an iron set to her jaw. “You wouldn’t have kept it all this time unless you needed it to keep _yourself_ safe. We will manage some other way.”

Footsteps thudded up the path as Percival returned from harassing the goats, and he stopped in shock at the sight of the shining monstrance. “Wow, look at that! I bet we could buy a whole army with it!”

Dubric grinned at the boy and then returned his attention to Nimue, earnest pleading in his eyes. “Please,” he implored, “Gawain charged me to protect his people. He himself gave everything to do so. Compared to his sacrifice, this is a tiny thing I offer for the protection of the Fey. Now that they have migrated beyond these woods, few will need my help after this. Take it, and use it to help your people.”

Nimue snorted in frustration, and turned to Lancelot with a questioning look. Caught off-guard by the realization that she wanted his opinion, he simply stared back at her for a second before nodding. Sighing again, she turned back to Dubric and squared her shoulders. “Very well, but I want you to know that I intend the Fey to repay our debt. I expect you not to die before collecting what we owe to you.”

Dubric smiled again in pure delight, but bowed his head respectfully and murmured, “I would not dream of it, my lady.” He handed her the monstrance, but she immediately passed it to Lancelot, seemingly discomfited by such a distinct symbol of the religion that had been such a threat to her. It was hardly less awkward for the erstwhile monk, however, and he quickly stashed it deep in his pack, out of view.

“Well,” Nimue said, glancing over Percival and Lancelot to assess their readiness, “I suppose we must be going now.” She turned back to the old priest, and after a moment’s hesitation, reached out and squeezed his hand, her voice softening as she spoke. “We truly are in your debt, Father. Forgive us for threatening you when we first arrived. We…. we would not have survived without your help.”

Dubric placed his other hand over Nimue’s and smiled around at each of them. “It has been my honor. I pray you have a safe journey, and that we will meet again some day.” He stepped back and crossed himself, bowing his head in a short prayer for their protection.

Nimue led the way toward the rocky overhang that marked their path out of the hidden clearing, with Percival close behind chattering about the mood of the goats and all the things they might buy with so much gold. Lancelot took one step to follow them, and then another. Then, he stopped. Something had been simmering in his mind since the previous night, and it would not leave him in peace.

Turning on his heel, he stepped closer to the priest and looked down into his puzzled eyes. Swallowing thickly, he whispered, “Father…. What would happen if I _were_ to be baptized…. but still didn’t believe?”

Dubric remained silent for a moment, solemnly considering the young man’s question. Finally, he spoke in a low voice, nodding slowly: “Then, I suppose you would just get a bit wet.”

Lancelot nearly smiled in spite of himself, his heart speeding slightly. “Then, would you…?”

“Of course. One moment, please.” Dubric turned and hurried into his hut. Behind him, Lancelot felt Nimue and Percival watching curiously, but was grateful they did not question or interrupt. The old man emerged a moment later with a small bowl of water, then gestured to Lancelot to kneel.

Slowly, the young man knelt in the wet leaves, bowing his head and trying to ignore his pounding heart. There was a long pause, and then he felt Father Dubric’s hand lay gently on the crown of his head, cold water soaking his hair and dripping down his cheeks. Speaking quietly so that only Lancelot could hear him, the old priest murmured _“_ _Lancelot, ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”_ Cool, coarse fingers traced a cross on his forehead, and then Dubric laid his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. “Go in peace, my son.”

Lancelot stood and met his eye, not entirely sure what he had done but somehow feeling victorious all the same. It was one thing, at least, that he had taken back from Father Carden, one less failing that the old ghost could hold over him in his dreams.

“Thank you,” he whispered to Father Dubric, who bowed his head in response. Then Lancelot turned and strode toward Nimue and Percival, both with puzzled looks on their faces, but silent in respect. Together, they ducked into the rocky tunnel and passed back into the open forest.


	8. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the journey to Kingsbridge with Nimue and Percival, Lancelot learns more about their past, about the strange Fey gods they call the Hidden, and about the enemies that may yet pursue them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, you all have blown me away with your sweet comments and kudos! Thank you so much for the response to my last chapter! This one was a bit slow to write but it came together in the end. Hope you enjoy and I will do my best to have the next one soon!
> 
> (Oh, and yes, Kingsbridge is a reference to Pillars of the Earth.)

The world into which the little group emerged was to all appearances much the same as what they had left behind: lush, damp, and thickly scented with that strange mix of freshness and rot that hung over all forests. Yet, to Lancelot, it seemed completely new and foreign. Before, he had traveled through forests mostly alone, often on horseback, and usually pursuing some Fey quarry to their death. His mission had always been foremost in his mind, the thought of Father Carden’s disapproval filling him with iron determination to carry out his orders. Always, he had sensed the hostility of the woods, as if the trees themselves detected a traitor in their midst and would turn on him with vengeful malice if ever he let down his guard.

Now, with his exposed hair still wet from Dubric’s ritual, Lancelot passed through the forest feeling no threat from the natural world. Carden’s cruel voice had gone silent in his mind, and his new companions walked beside him without a hint of fear. There was no hiding, no stalking of prey, no need to steel himself for the spilling of blood. He could simply…. be.

They were still days from Kingsbridge, a destination Dubric had chosen for them to resupply, in the hope that it would be far enough from the Red Paladins’ territory so as to draw minimal attention. Still, they would have to double back and cross the river again to get there, taking them directly through the path the Paladins had traveled on their hunt. Dubric had reasoned that the monks would not search long after losing the trail, especially if the spectre of the Green Knight had successfully frightened them away ( _or killed them,_ Lancelot had thought darkly). Nimue had been frustrated with the idea of going so far from Beggars Coast, the last known location of the Fey, but in the end she had acknowledged that nothing could be done without resupplying first, and relented.

Glancing sideways at the young woman, he thought she might still be bitter over the plan, as she chewed on her lip in apparent anxiety. His eyes were drawn to that full mouth, where her teeth worried at her lower lip, unable to resist the opportunity to observe her at such a close distance. Oblivious to his gaze, Nimue stared distractedly at the ground in front of her, her brows knit as if the earth itself offended her. It occurred to Lancelot that another person might try to say something reassuring to her, but since he had never attempted such a thing, he remained silent.

There was a shuffling noise up ahead and Nimue shook herself from her thoughts, looking up to where Percival had nearly disappeared between the trees. “Squir— Percival!” she hissed loudly, nearly reverting to his childhood nickname, “Don’t run so far ahead! Stay where we can see you!”

Percival poked his head around a wide tree trunk and rolled his eyes. “I’m _scouting,_ Nimue. Looking for more Paladin scum so you don’t walk right into them. And it’s _Sir Percival,_ remember?” He nodded at them imperiously and scampered to the next tree, completely ignoring her command.

“Gods, _Sir Percival_ ,” Nimue muttered, shaking her head. “He really is going to be insufferable now.”

Though she seemed to be talking to herself, Lancelot heard himself respond “Compared to how delightful he was before, you mean?”

She let out something between a snicker and a giggle, then slapped a hand over her mouth to quiet herself. Lancelot was so shocked to have made her laugh that he stopped abruptly, swaying with the attempt to arrest his momentum. He stared at her back as she kept walking, entranced by the magical sound and suddenly desperate to hear it again. Had he ever made anyone laugh before? What would it take to make Nimue laugh again? What would it sound like if she laughed openly, without having to silence herself for fear of discovery?

She seemed to realize suddenly that he was no longer with her, and turned to him with a quizzical expression. “Something wrong?”

He shook himself and hurried to catch up with her. “Nothing.” She gave him a brief, skeptical look, then cast her eyes forward again to watch for Percival.

They spoke little after that except to humor the boy each time he ran back to them with an official-sounding report of what lay ahead, or occasionally to point out an impressive pile of animal dung. Lancelot struggled a bit to make sure that they were heading in the right direction as the overcast sky made it difficult to tell the position of the sun, but thankfully Dubric had described the topography in accurate detail. Within hours, they had reached the spot he recommended they cross the river again, a shallow and secluded bend where the water slowed to a trickle.

Somewhat nervously recalling their last visit to the river’s edge, Nimue and Lancelot watched from a safe distance for several minutes before determining that they were indeed alone. Removing their boots this time to keep them dry, the group waded through the water with their packs held high. On the opposite bank, they rested for a few moments and ate some of the food they had brought with them, along with several mushrooms Nimue saw nearby.

As they ate, Percival kept chattering away, his mind still reeling with everything he hoped to buy in Kingsbridge. Before long, he and Nimue were sharing inside jokes, reminiscing about their past in the Sky Folk village, and Lancelot found himself shifting uncomfortably. As always, he could not differentiate their village from the others in his memory, recalling only a blur of choking smoke and anguished screams blending into an unbroken chain of fire and pain. The memories disturbed his newfound peace, and Lancelot jumped to his feet and began gathering his things, the motion reminding Nimue that they needed to keep moving.

They continued North throughout the afternoon until the light beneath the canopy finally began to dim. Finding a mostly-dry spot that was somewhat protected from the wind by shallow slope, they set to preparing a fire and portioned out more of their food. As he had the first night they had spent in the forest, Percival slumped over almost immediately after swallowing his last bite and began to snore. Nimue smiled and shook her head, then laid out their bedrolls and gestured to Lancelot to bring the sleeping child over and lie him down.

Again somewhat startled by how easily she sought his help, Lancelot lifted Percival and carried him to his bedroll. As the boy snorted in his sleep and curled onto his side, the young man marveled at his simple trust. It had been a full week since they had left the Paladin camp, and somehow he was here, putting a Fey child to bed alongside a notorious witch.

He turned to find Nimue kneeling on her own bedroll, watching him with an indecipherable expression. Suppressing a shiver at her close scrutiny, he stood and walked to the other side of the fire.

Her voice followed him. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping watch.”

Skepticism crept back into Nimue’s eyes, which slid briefly to the sword still strapped at his hip. Lancelot saw her hand twitch at her own side as if to grasp for a blade.

“I could take first watch,” she said, a little too casually to be convincing.

Lancelot paused a moment before responding. Despite the reasonably comfortable status of their truce, it would be all too easy to alarm her. After all, it would be her first night spent in his company where he was fully in command of his faculties, _and_ armed.

Matching her falsely relaxed tone, he murmured “Rest now. I’ll wake you later to take the second watch.” He intended to do no such thing, as he was about as comfortable sleeping around Nimue as she was around him, but he held her gaze with what he hoped was an expression of sincerity.

She stared back at him, the rising moon and dying firelight both reflected in her eyes. For an instant, he thought he heard the whispers again sigh through the trees, but then Nimue blinked and it seemed he had heard only the wind after all.

“Fine,” she said, returning her attention to her bedroll and placing her pack to use as a pillow. “Just be sure to wake me if…. if you need something.”

Lancelot was not sure what she meant by that. What could he possibly need from her?

Knowing it was difficult to sleep with the feeling of being watched, he turned his back to the fire and let his eyes acclimate to the darkness. Behind him, he heard Nimue shift briefly on her pallet for a few moments, then lie still. In time, there was only the crackle of the fire and the busy hum of the nighttime forest.

In a lifetime of being always on his guard, Lancelot could detect approaching danger at far greater distances than most. As they had hiked throughout the day, his senses told him that they moved farther and farther from human-inhabited areas, so any threats this night were likely to be wolves or bears, at most. Those he could handle easily, Lancelot was certain. The knowledge that the nearest humans were too far to reach them before daylight allowed him to relax somewhat, although he continued regularly scanning the trees for any change.

Once, he saw a pair of foxes, barely more than two pairs of reflective eyes in the darkness, but they vanished as quickly as they appeared. The night wore on and Lancelot felt exhaustion plucking at his spine, curving toward the earth as if to bow him into sleep. He resisted, though it occurred to him now that if he did not wake Nimue to take the watch, it would slow his reflexes tomorrow and he would be useless to them. Perhaps he should keep to his promise after all.

There was a whimper behind him and Lancelot tensed, hand flying to his sword hilt as he spun in place and rose to a half-kneeling position. His eyes swept the campsite, but no one moved.

He heard it again, louder, and realized it was coming from Percival, who began mumbling incoherently and twitching on his pallet. The child rolled toward Lancelot and he could see his young face contorted with fear as he whimpered again, “Papa…”

A nightmare. Lancelot went cold, his own nightmares slithering back into his mind like determined maggots, feasting on the fragile peace he’d built in only a single day. The boy whined louder now, moaning “Papaaaaa, where are you? Papa, I can’t find you!”

Lancelot began to crawl toward him, but before he had moved more than a step, Percival sat bolt upright, screaming, “PAPA! They’re here! PAPAAAAA!”

Suddenly, Nimue’s arms encircled the terrified boy and she pulled him to her, clutching him tightly and whispering against his hair. “Shhhh, Squirrel, it’s okay. You’re safe, I’m here, it’s all right….”

“Papa….” he cried piteously, wrapping his arms around Nimue’s middle and sobbing into her embrace.

Kneeling only an arm’s length away from them, Lancelot remained frozen as he watched tears drip down Nimue’s face. “I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

They stayed like that for some time until it seemed that Percival had dropped back into a dreamless sleep, nestled limply in Nimue’s arms as a slight wheezing snore escaped his mouth. Gently, the young woman laid him back down on the bedroll and yanked a blanket over him, smoothing his hair as she tucked the soft wool around his chin.

With her hand still resting on the child’s back, she spoke quietly to Lancelot. “His father…. was killed in the attack on Dewdenn. Or at least I think so. We had to run before we could bury the dead.”

Misery settled into Lancelot’s gut. Of course he should have known that the boy’s family had been killed when the Red Paladins had scourged their village, but he had never really considered it before. That meant that when he discovered Percival hiding in the Iron Wood, the boy had been mourning his father, and likely others. And afterward, when he had appeared at the Paladin camp, he had still been mourning. Later, the Green Knight too was taken from him….

Nimue’s voice again broke into his thoughts. “Is it my turn to keep watch now?”

The flames and screams roiled at the back of Lancelot’s mind, and though he was indeed exhausted, the thought of sleeping suddenly terrified him. “I…. I don’t mind keeping watch a little longer. If you like.”

She was looking directly at him now, studying him as she so often did, and he found he could not meet her eyes this time. He focused instead on the sleeping child, relieved to see the torment gone from his face, when Nimue spoke again, softly. “I have a confession to make.”

His eyes flicked nervously toward her again, both confused and intrigued.

She twisted her hands in her lap, licking her lips as she gathered her courage to continue. “I heard you…. Last night, at Father Dubric’s. I was awake, and I heard everything you said.”

Lancelot’s heart began beating faster as he tried to recall everything that he had said the previous night. He suddenly remembered Nimue stirring when he had told Dubric that Father Carden had tortured him, and realized that she must have been reacting to what she heard. There was a buzzing in his ears as his heart pounded harder still.

Nimue watched him warily, as if concerned that he might explode with anger at her admission. When he didn’t respond, she rushed to explain herself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, truly. It’s just your…. your movement woke me but I thought it would be rude to interrupt, and….” Her hands flailed as if they could better explain, but then she dropped them.

“I’m sorry. I know that was…. private.” Blue eyes lifted to his. “But if that’s why you don’t want to sleep, I just wanted you to know that I understand. Or…. well, I understand.” She twisted her hands in her lap again, twining her fingers together over and over, still uncertain how he might react.

Lancelot’s horror had calmed slightly at her stumbling apology, but he still stared at her for a long moment. Finally, he dropped his gaze to his own lap and murmured, “I have a confession, as well. Before, at the bathing pool, I saw you….” He blessed the darkness for hiding the blush that crept up his cheeks. “I saw your scars. On your back.”

 _“You what?_ You saw…. How _dare_ you? What are you, some sort of pervert?” Nimue’s voice rose and her hand grasped again for a blade that was not there, fury once more blazing in her eyes. Lancelot realized suddenly that his admission had been a horrible mistake.

“I didn’t…. No, I wasn’t trying–” A rush of sinister voices suddenly hissed through the night, and the forest closed in with avenging glee. As his protests died on his lips, it struck Lancelot as ironic that for all his sins, the one that would finally doom him was accidentally seeing a woman undressed. Among the Paladins and their depraved appetites, that would not even have merited a single lash.

The thought of the whip reminded him of why he had admitted his secret in the first place, and he blurted to her “They’re like mine.” The whispers hushed briefly, though Nimue’s face remained hard. “I’m sorry, I…. I just thought your scars were like mine.” _That you were like me,_ he thought. It sounded stupid now that he had said it aloud. The whispers hovered around him, murmuring in quiet judgement. Lancelot waited on them to decide his fate.

Instead, they receded. Nimue remained tense, hand at the invisible sword on her hip. As he watched, her bloodthirsty expression softened into something at first curious, and then…. relieved? Her hand unclenched and she sat back slightly on her mat, surveying him as if making a decision. Finally, she swallowed and muttered, “Well, I didn’t get mine the same way you got yours. So they’re not quite a matching set.”

Lancelot remained silent, wondering if that was all she would say. Her gaze fell again, and Nimue licked her lips in a tic that he was beginning to recognize as an involuntary sign that she was gathering her courage to speak. One hand absently reached up to her shoulder as if to protect those hidden scars.

“When I was five,” she whispered, “I was attacked by a demon bear. A dark god of some sort. In fact, it lured me into a trap, using my powers against me.” A tiny, proud smile spread over her face. “But I turned those powers back on itself. That was the first time I called to the Hidden and they answered me.”

The Hidden. The strange Fey gods that had helped heal her when Lancelot and Percival had found her nearly dead in the river. The same that allowed her to grow healing herbs and food as they needed. Lancelot struggled to reconcile the kindly forest gods who healed wounded Fey with the murderous voices that had torn men apart. How could they be the same?

Nimue’s expression sank again into sorrow and a note of bitterness entered her voice as she continued. “But afterward, the scars always set me apart. My father–“ She winced. “Well, I thought he was my father then. But he seemed afraid of me, and the rest of the village took their cues from him. The children would not play with me, and sometimes they….” She trailed off, blinking rapidly as painful memories played across her face.

Finally, she raised her eyes to him again and spat “They hated me. They all did. Every one of them.” Her eyes smoldered with resentment, and Lancelot felt his own spike of rage at the memory of the Paladins mocking him as Carden’s pet, Carden’s bloodhound, their petty insults failing to mask the stink of fear that hung on them like dung. He knew well the malice of terrified men.

“Why then would you become their queen?” he asked. “Why serve them, protect them, if they had only ever been cruel to you?”

“Because not all of them were cruel,” Nimue replied, her gaze shifting to where Percival slept in a tight ball under his blanket. “They didn’t deserve to be wiped out.” As Lancelot struggled not to take this last comment personally, he saw her hand begin to clench at her side again, her expression darkening.

“In the end though, it was the sword. The Sword of Power came to me, and I knew that if I wielded it, no one would ever mock me again.” Her face twisted now into a scowl, and her voice dropped low. “And I was right. They might still fear me, but they respected me. No one dared cross the Fey Queen.” One corner of her mouth curled up in a vicious smile. “Or at least, no one dared _twice._ ”

Disturbed slightly by the relish in her voice, Lancelot could not help asking “What happened to the sword?” Nimue’s eyes snapped back to him and she immediately regarded him with suspicion once more.

Lancelot chose to quickly change the subject. “Defeating a dark god…. it’s a good story. Far better than how I acquired my scars.” His attempt to be self-deprecating cut deeper than he expected as he realized her marks were a sign of strength, while his exposed his weakness. Staring into the dying embers of their fire, he sensed the dormant voice of Father Carden hovering just beyond his consciousness, and felt a new thrill of fear at the thought of sleep.

“You should try to get some rest.” Nimue’s voice, gentle now, interrupted his brooding. He glanced up to find her regarding him with what looked like concern, and was struck again by the sense that she could hear his thoughts. When he failed to answer, she stood and walked over to him, kneeling in the leaves. It was the closest she had been to him since she last tended his wounds, and Lancelot found himself suddenly craving her soft touch.

“Lancelot,” Nimue whispered, and he felt a tiny tremor at her use of his name. “Please rest, if you can. The Hidden do not always cooperate with me, but it seems they agree that you should remain alive and healthy. If you don’t trust me to protect you, trust them. And sleep.” She pointed to her vacated bedroll.

As his gaze followed her arm, a new wave of exhaustion swept over Lancelot, accompanied once more by hushed voices. But this time, they were not ominous and menacing, but soothing. They coaxed him reassuringly toward the pallet, even as he held himself still, uncertain. His eyes slid back to Nimue’s steady blue gaze. He believed that she did not want to hurt him. Not any more.

At his slight nod, she moved aside and Lancelot crawled to the mat, arranging himself in a defensive posture out of habit. Though his vision blurred and the darkness thickened as the last of the embers winked out, he kept his eyes on Nimue’s form perched alertly only a few paces away. When he finally slept, it was with the thought that it must be the first time in his life that anyone had ever guarded him.

It was scent that first awakened him this time. Something earthy, fresh, that smell of soil that blended new bloom with decay. And beyond it, the tang of mint or citrus. Further, the stink of wet leaves was softened by bright, sharp pine, creating a cocktail of scents that enticed Lancelot to breathe deeply once, twice, before he finally opened his eyes.

His vision focused, and he saw a riotously cheerful daisy bending into his view. He blinked, and noticed the thin, feathery leaves…. not a daisy then. Chamomile. The earthy scent suddenly made sense, and a moment later he noticed the lemon balm nestled behind the chamomile. Lancelot lifted his head and took in the tiny patch, which grew only inches from his face where he rested on the bedroll. He was certain these plants had not been here the previous night.

Quickly, his mind rolled through his limited medicinal knowledge, trying to remember the common uses of chamomile and lemon balm. As he did so, he again inhaled their gentle scent, and felt a soothing calm spread through his limbs, very nearly encouraging him to drop his head and steal a few moments more of sleep. _Calm, that’s it. Chamomile and lemon balm are used to ease anxiety._

Lancelot glanced over his shoulder at where Nimue and Percival sat eating breakfast. Had she grown these herbs for him, to help him sleep? Or had the Hidden done it of their own accord? He listened briefly for the capricious whispers, but heard only the cacophony of morning birdsong.

“Oy, he’s awake!” Percival chirruped, tossing a lumpy and slightly mushy parsnip at Lancelot’s head. As usual, the child was grinning impishly, apparently with no memory of his nightmares of the previous night. “You can eat and walk at the same time, can’t you, Lancelot? I’m craving some meat, but _Her Highness_ here says we don’t have time to hunt. And anyway, we don’t have a bow.” He glared at Nimue, who ignored his jabs as she serenely ate her own food.

Lancelot sat up and began rolling up his pallet as Percival barreled on. “Speaking of bows, Nimue, you never told us who shot you. Was it a Paladin? I hope you shoved a root up his arsehole and made it come out his nose–”

“Lovely as that sounds, I did not. And it wasn’t a Paladin.” Nimue paused and Lancelot thought he saw a faint shudder pass through her body. “It was Sister Iris, from Yvoire Abbey.”

Percival looked confused. “A nun shot you? What, they teach archery in convents now?”

He spoke as if the idea was hilarious, but Lancelot suddenly recalled the tiny girl with the severe face and imperious voice who had informed on “Sister Alice” when he and Carden had interrogated the nuns. He knew her type, the true believers who genuinely thought that their god called them to harm and betray others for the greater good. But in this one, there was something more…. a desperate hunger for belonging that he knew only all too well. He was not at all surprised she had put two arrows into the Fey Queen when presented with the opportunity. As he might have, if he’d met Nimue under different circumstances.

“No,” she was saying. “I don’t really know where she learned to shoot. Or how she knew where I was. Or even why she wanted to kill me.” Nimue squinted at the earth as if it held answers. “I suppose she still thought I was a demon. Anyhow, I don’t know what happened to her after that. I…. I fell into the water and that’s the last thing I remember.” Lancelot had the distinct feeling that there was more to the story, but she clearly did not wish to share.

Glancing up at Percival as he finished packing, Lancelot was startled to see a look of dawning horror on his young face. He stared at Nimue, as if the sight of her suddenly terrified him. “What…. what did she look like?” he squeaked.

Nimue was focused on packing her own bag now and didn’t see the expression on the boy’s face as she nonchalantly responded, “Very short, skinny. Mousy features, scary eyes, long brown hair. Why?”

Only Lancelot saw Percival’s eyes suddenly glisten with tears as he abruptly leapt to his feet and mumbled something about searching for more food, then lurched unsteadily away from the campsite. Nimue looked up, confused, and called after him, but Lancelot had already stood and started after the boy. “I’ll handle it,” he said to her as he swept by, and thankfully she remained seated.

It took him only a few strides to catch up with the child, who stomped angrily through the leaves, all thought of stealth forgotten. “Percival.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, stopping him with gentle pressure. “What’s wrong?”

Percival looked up, face stricken and angry tears streaming, his eyes darting back toward Nimue and then up again at his new friend. “It’s me,” he whimpered. “I taught that nun how to shoot.” Lancelot must have appeared shocked because Percival rushed to explain: “I didn’t know who she was, I just thought she was some creepy girl who wanted to avenge her family! We took in lots of refugees and she asked me to teach her. I…. I thought it would be good for the Fey to have more archers. I didn’t think….” He broke off, flopping his arms helplessly.

Lancelot knelt in front of him, studying the child’s eyes with sympathy and fascination. Truly, Percival was not responsible for what Iris had done, but here he was, sobbing as if he had fired two arrows into Nimue himself. For all the atrocities the Paladins had committed, Lancelot could not recall ever seeing any of them show such remorse. Paired with the memory of the boy’s nightmares of his lost father the previous night, the young man felt a wave of pity and determined protectiveness swell in his gut.

Looking steadily into Percival’s tearful eyes, Lancelot spoke gently. “It’s not your fault. You said yourself, you didn’t know what she would do.”

“But Nimue almost died because of me!” the boy wailed, hiccuping.

 _“No.”_ Lancelot heard his voice grow harsher now, though his ire was not directed at the child. “Never accept responsibility for someone else’s deeds. You didn’t hurt Nimue. You saved her.”

Sniffling, Percival wiped a fist across his nose. He cocked his head at Lancelot skeptically, doubting his sincerity. After a long moment where the young man continued to hold his gaze, the boy suddenly grinned and said, “Well, you helped with that. Saving her, I mean. Well done you.” His grin widened until he looked almost devilish with glee. “But you still have no chance with her.”

Lancelot stood so fast he nearly lost his balance and toppled over. He started walking briskly back toward the camp, muttering “We have to get going. We’ll find more food on the way.”

Little feet shuffled up alongside him accompanied by Percival’s mocking voice. “Too bad we won’t be able to find anything to satisfy _your_ appetite.”

Not for the first time, Lancelot questioned why he had ever tied himself to a demon child who reveled in tormenting him.

The day passed uneventfully as the little group traveled farther North, briefly spying a road in the distance but keeping to the trees for safety. Percival continued to scout ahead and Nimue continued to fret about him, while Lancelot kept his senses tuned to the surrounding forest, grateful that a few hours of sleep allowed him to stay sharp and alert. In his bag he had packed the chamomile and lemon balm, perhaps to make a tea later. Or at least, that was his rationalization. A tiny voice in his mind kept suggesting that he truly kept them as a reminder that Nimue cared for him, however little.

He did his best to ignore that voice.

In the afternoon, a stroke of luck brought them across a small pond with a group of ducks, and they were able to catch one for supper. The fatty meat was delicious, and they all enjoyed it at a leisurely pace, knowing it might be the last substantial meal they would have before reaching Kingsbridge. Already, Percival’s list of things he was excited to buy had narrowed mostly to just food, as their rations from Father Dubric ran low and foraging became tiresome. Even Lancelot, though accustomed to fasting, had begun to dream of warm bread, sometimes so intensely he could almost smell it.

He and Nimue again took turns keeping watch in the night, though he could not quite bring himself to offer her the sword even as her eyes darted to it repeatedly. Percival suffered no further nightmares, and Lancelot, too, slept peacefully.

Another day passed, and finally, Percival returned from his usual scouting ahead to report that the nearby road was filled with traders approaching Kingsbridge for market day. As they had discussed, the party stayed in the woods and moved parallel to the road, knowing they might be too conspicuous amongst the humans. The plan was for Nimue and Percival to enter the town gates together and buy whatever was needed, while Lancelot remained hidden due to his far-too-recognizable facial markings. The young warrior was deeply bitter at the idea of cowering in the forest while Nimue and the boy walked directly into potential danger, but he could not argue that his presence was likely to attract more attention than was wise.

Still, there was a great deal of bickering as they approached the gate.

“Are you sure we can’t take your sword, Lancelot? I promise to bring it back without a scratch!” Percival pleaded, followed by a devious smile. “Might have some Paladin blood on it, though.”

“We’re hoping there won’t be any Paladins, remember?” Nimue put it before Lancelot could respond. “Though it does seem like we should have some means of defending ourselves….” She glared at the young man, eyes again slipping to the sword hilt he still clasped at his waist.

Lancelot kept his face passive, though he was unable to keep the bite from his voice. “If you need to defend yourself, this sword will do you more harm than good. It’s too heavy for you.” Her scowl deepened, but he was in no mood to spare her pride. “I’m sure you could simply call up an army of roots or a pillar of fire if you need protection.”

“What good would that do if we’re trying to avoid notice?” she snapped. “Might as well announce to the whole country that the Wolf-Blood Witch is alive and well. Besides, that’s not how it works. I mean, not always….” she trailed off, once again chewing her lip in discomfort.

Unable to resist the opening, Lancelot pressed “How _does_ it work?”

She looked back at him sharply, then over at Percival, whose curiosity was also painted all over his face. Sighing, Nimue glanced up at the canopy, studying the leaves which were newly tipped with yellow and orange as the seasons changed. “The Hidden will sometimes respond to my call…. And sometimes they do not. In the past, they have been most reliable when I have been angry, or in danger. They helped me destroy my enemies, especially when I held the Sword of Power.” Lancelot saw her right hand clench and unclench yet again, as it always did when her thoughts turned to the sword.

“But since the river, it’s been different. Now, they only listen to me when…. When I’m trying to help. To heal.” Her eyes dropped to the earth, and Lancelot could not help but feel she was avoiding his gaze.

“Merlin said I need only to create an intention, then surrender it to the Hidden. And that works, mostly. But sometimes my intentions are—” A shadow passed over Nimue’s face, and though he heard no vicious whispers in the trees, Lancelot felt the fury and menace that spilled outward from her soul. He thought of what she had shared of her childhood, how she had been an outcast from her own people, and then later of how she had watched them slaughtered by his red brothers, and felt an echoing rage in his own heart.

Of course she found it difficult to form an intention of healing. He understood the corrosive nature of hatred, and the desire to burn everything that had ever hurt him. Worse, to feel that some unseen god was judging that soul-deep need for vengeance, that they might deprive her of justice….

He wondered if Nimue’s relationship with the Hidden was not unlike his with the Christian god: filled with resentment for promises unkept.

“When did you meet Merlin, Nimue?” Percival asked, and Lancelot realized he’d missed that detail of her story.

Shaking her head, she shrugged on her bag and began rummaging through its contents for a final check. “I’ll tell you later. Now come on, it might take all day to get what we need.”

When she and Percival were ready, Nimue approached Lancelot and tentatively held out her hand. For a moment, he thought she was asking for the sword again and nearly opened his mouth to argue, but then he realized she needed the golden monstrance, which was still stashed deep in his pack. Pulling it out, he placed it in her hands, feeling a fresh prick of anxiety as she buried it in her bag.

“Remember, you’re most at risk when you’re trying to sell it,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice calm and casual. “The less detail you offer for how you acquired it, the better.”

Nimue nodded, and Lancelot caught the tiniest whiff of fear buried beneath her soft scent. He suppressed an urge to reach out and take her hand, to offer her comfort. With a light puff of breath, she leaned closer to him, blue eyes shadowed with something that might have been concern. “If we’re not back by nightfall,” she whispered, “don’t come in. Just leave. Go back to Dubric and be safe.”

His stomach dropped at her words. He wondered if it was a ploy to get rid of him. Perhaps she and Percival would buy everything they needed for the journey and then leave through the far gate, finally escaping their weeping shadow. After all, Nimue had told him that he would be unwelcome among the Fey.

Still, there was also the chance that they could be captured. Tortured. Killed. And Lancelot knew without a doubt what he would really do if they failed to return by nightfall.

“No.”

Her eyes widened in shock and she opened her mouth to argue again.

“I can’t make that promise, because I need to be certain Percival is safe.” There was a long pause. “And you. Both of you. So if you want me to stay outside the gates, make sure you return by sundown.”

Nimue closed her mouth and swallowed, holding his gaze as the seconds passed. Finally, she nodded, then turned on her heel and started through the trees toward the wall. Behind her, Percival caught Lancelot’s eye and shook his head, mouthing “ _NO CHANCE”_ before turning away with a grin and following her.

As they disappeared through the trees, Lancelot strode in the other direction, toward the western wall of the town. He might have agreed to stay out of sight, but that didn’t mean he would be useless. Of the three of them, he was the only one who had been to Kingsbridge before, and his memory of the terrain provided an excellent vantage point from which to watch Nimue and Percival, and keep an eye out for any danger.

Though the woods had been cleared and a deep trench dug around the entirety of the town walls for defense, a steep slope rose to the West, and the treeline there grew tall. Some of the trunks seemed to lean toward the town, their branches never quite close enough to allow one to jump atop the walls, but certainly near enough that someone with the Weeping Monk’s eyes could see over them. Finding a sturdy, gnarled ash, Lancelot quickly scaled it and found a perch that allowed him a decent view into the streets.

He knew that entering the gates could take time, particularly with so many visitors on a market day, but he still gave a small sigh of relief when he finally saw Nimue and Percival appear in the street. His eyes followed them as they moved toward the central hub, where the beginnings of a cathedral appeared under construction, and the main roads pressed outward like spokes on a wheel. Far on the other side of the town, a second gate opened in the Eastern wall, leading to the bridge for which it was named.

After a few moments, the two figures ducked into a building, and Lancelot’s anxiety returned. Now they would try to sell the monstrance, an act almost certain to raise suspicion. The young man cast wary eyes around the town, checking again and again for signs of guards or sellswords, anyone who might pose a threat if some tradesman raised the alarm. Minutes passed, and the sun climbed higher.

Suddenly, Nimue and Percival emerged into the street. The boy seemed to be skipping, and was pointing excitedly across the road at another shop, then at a food cart, then at another food cart….

Lancelot let out the breath he had been holding, smiling and shaking his head at the child’s ecstatic demeanor. It seemed the sale had gone off without a hitch then, and next came the fun part of spending all that money.

For the rest of the afternoon, the young man watched the two of them pass in and out of various stores, emerging laden with every kind of food and supply and many he did not even recognize. To his relief, they did not seem to attract attention at all in the throng of people milling about to buy and sell their wares. Kingsbridge was simply large enough to hide two human-passing Fey whom no one recognized. Here, they were only a young woman and a boy, and no one knew or cared what they were about.

The sun had begun to fall faster when Percival and Nimue ducked into yet another shop, and Lancelot hoped that it was their last. Hours had passed since he had last eaten, and they needed to find a safe place to sleep soon. Further, the gates would likely close at sundown, so two would need to make it out before then. Even now, the vendors and buyers who had filled the streets during the day trudged toward the exits, gradually clearing the town until only the residents would remain.

Except…. Lancelot rubbed his weary eyes, then squinted at the Eastern gate in the distance.

_No. It can’t be._

Coming through the opening in the far wall was a mass of red. Mounted Paladins, perhaps forty of them, passed under the arch, led by a small cadre of black-clad warriors in golden masks. The Trinity Guard.

A sick feeling coiled in Lancelot’s gut and began clawing its way up his throat. His eyes snapped back to the shop Nimue and Percival had entered, blissfully unaware of the approaching threat. The doorway let out directly onto the road on which the Paladins marched from the Eastern gate toward the town center. If they emerged now, they would certainly be spotted.

He had left them with no weapon. And he had no way to warn them.

Trying to calm himself, Lancelot glanced back at the group of red and black riders, thinking that perhaps no one in this group would recognize the witch and the Fey child. Perhaps they were too tired to look closely at every person they passed. Entering the town before sundown meant that they had likely been traveling for some time and would spend the night within the walls, so maybe they were all too tired to mark a pair of fugitives.

The Paladins were closer now, still a few dozen paces from the little shop, when there was some shuffling in their ranks and two riders moved to the front of the column. Lancelot sucked in a breath at the black cassock and tonsured head, recognizing Abbott Wicklow immediately. His eyes slid to the slight, feminine rider dressed in brown beside him. He squinted closer, then stopped breathing altogether.

It was Sister Iris.


	9. Blades and Blooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nimue and Percival discover that they are surrounded by enemies in Kingsbridge, and attempt an escape with some unexpectedly magical assistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised not to leave you hanging on that cliff for too long! I hope you all enjoy this chapter!
> 
> As often happens in this fic, I planned many more events for this chapter than I eventually found made sense, so I promise there are lots more heart-to-heart conversations and action on the way.
> 
> As always, thank you again for the lovely, encouraging comments!

The blade was beautiful. Mesmerized, Nimue stroked its sharp edge with a lover’s caress, admiring the fine metalwork even as she longed for the Sword of Power. Somewhere behind her, Percival was noisily examining the available knives, keeping the blacksmith occupied as she pretended disinterest in his wares. It was their final stop of the day, one that she almost didn’t make, but the desire to feel a hilt in her hand had eventually proved too strong.

The day had gone fairly smoothly from the beginning, as she and Percival had concocted a believable backstory that cast her as Alice, a recently-widowed young stepmother to her dear precocious boy. At the jeweler, the golden monstrance had so excited the young man behind the bench that he had barely looked at her as they completed the transaction, and most vendors thereafter were interested only in her coins. Only the tailor seemed to become suspicious when she requested a set of clothes for a tall man, but Percival had cleverly come to the rescue by explaining that they would bury his departed father in the new clothes. He even shed some very convincing tears for good measure.

After purchasing everything they would need to travel for some weeks, save a horse or two, they had agreed that one sword between three people was not enough when there were Red Paladins about, and made a final visit to the blacksmith even as the other market patrons began to leave town. Percival was quite determined to buy a small knife like the ones his father had taught him to use, while Nimue thought she might buy a sensible dagger, that is until she saw the swords.

Though she had only the Sword of Power and Lancelot’s sword for comparison, Nimue could tell that the blacksmith was an extremely skilled craftsman, with each blade folded perfectly and occasionally engraved with beautiful lettering. This one which had caught her eye also boasted a fine oak hilt inlaid with swirling silver, and her hand itched to grasp it and test its weight.

“Madam, is there something you would like to see?” The smith’s voice came from behind her and Nimue reminded herself that very few human women wielded swords.

Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away from the weapon and murmured vaguely in a way that she hoped sounded like a grieving widow, “Oh, I wouldn’t know. I do wonder if I should have some means of protection now that my dear husband is gone.”

The burly man smiled somewhere behind his bushy black beard. “I would hope no one would threaten you, Madam. But if it would make you more comfortable, perhaps something like this?” He lifted a long, thin dagger from a stand and presented it to her. Though it was very different in style from the one Dizier had offered her, the sudden memory of the leather trader’s kindness, so closely followed by his brutal death, stung her eyes with tears.

Horrified at her reaction, the smith made to put the weapon away, but she reached out to him. “No no, I like it! It’s lovely. I’ll take it.” Nimue glanced to the side where Percival stood clutching the knife he had selected, trying to hide his delight. Suppressing a smile, she added “And the knife for my boy.”

As she rummaged in her bag for the appropriate coinage, Nimue stole a glance at the open doorway. The foot traffic outside had nearly vanished and the light was growing dimmer, which meant that the gates would be closing any minute. They had dallied too long. Cursing herself for her foolishness and hoping that Lancelot wouldn’t do anything stupid, she passed the money to the smith and slid the sheathed dagger into her overstuffed pack.

“Thank you for your patronage, Madam, but you’d best get going,” he advised, gesturing to the door. “The gates close promptly at sundown, every day.” Nodding her thanks, Nimue snatched Percival’s hand and headed for the street.

Her foot was just about to cross over the threshold when she saw it. Right there in the doorway, growing rapidly in the center of the dirt floor, was a sapling.

Nimue’s hand flew to her face, feeling for the telltale leaf patterns that signaled her connection to the Hidden, but she felt only smooth skin. This was not her doing, yet the sapling grew taller, sprouting leaves and reaching nearly to her knees.

Behind her, Percival bumped into her, trying to pass through the doorway. “Oof, Nim— I mean,  _ Alice, _ we need to go. Move already.”

She remained frozen in the frame, blocking the view from the inside with her body. If the blacksmith saw, he might suspect that they were Fey, and there was no way to know if he was friendly to their kind or not. Nimue’s heart pounded loudly in her ears as she watched the little sapling bud and bloom before her. Why were the Hidden growing a tree right in the middle of a human town?

_ An ash tree…. _

Nimue blinked as icy dread shot through her veins. Behind her, the blacksmith was speaking as if from far away, his unintelligible words blended with Percival’s grousing and the sounds of approaching horses. Many horses. She looked up.

And spun back into the shop so quickly that she knocked the boy to the ground. “Hey! What–” Nimue slapped a hand over his mouth to silence him, dragging him toward the wall and away from the open door.

_ How can she be here? How? _

Breath escaped her in short puffs as the image of Sister Iris’ passing profile seared itself in her mind, along with cassocks of black and red atop rows of steady mounts. Outside, the hoofbeats thudded louder, signaling the sheer numbers of the enemies now blocking their escape. The ash sapling had appeared not a moment too soon. Had she stepped out the door, Nimue would have walked right into the path of Iris and the Red Paladins.

“Excuse me, but is something wrong?” She looked up to find the blacksmith standing over her with a look of wary concern, watching as she still held a struggling Percival in a vice-like grip.

Nimue’s mouth went dry as she raced to think of an explanation, the horses’ footsteps echoing louder in her mind and drowning out all coherent thought. She watched in horror as the smith’s eyes slid to the open doorway, then widened in shock at the little tree that had grown there.

Understanding dawned on his face.

He stepped back, eyes narrowing and his mouth disappearing into his beard in a thin line.  _ “Witch” _ he breathed, and Nimue felt the sharp spike of fear pressing into her mind.

She could call on the Hidden herself, now, to bind him or crush the life from him as she and Percival made their escape, but it would reveal their presence to the Paladins. And despite the way that the smith was now looking at them, Nimue suddenly found that she didn’t want to harm him. He might fear them because he had heard lies about the Fey, but he had been kind to them.

But they needed to escape, now, or the gates would close and they would be two Fey trapped in a human town with the Red Paladins. And Sister Iris, slayer of the Wolf-Blood Witch.

Releasing Percival, who was now taut with fear, Nimue reached a hand out to the man in supplication. Terror flashed in his eyes and he snatched a sword from the display she had inspected earlier, dropping into a defensive stance far more gracefully than she would expect from a man of his size.

“Please,” she whispered, praying that her voice would not carry outside, “Just let us go. We mean you no harm, we only want to leave Kingsbridge before the gates close.”

“No,” he snarled, though she noticed he kept his voice low, too. “If the Paladins catch you, you’ll tell them I sold you those daggers and my family will be in danger. Better to turn you over to them now. It’s my Christian duty.”

“No, we won’t tell, I swear—”

“I know their tactics. It won’t matter if you want to tell them or not.” There was a tremor in his voice and Nimue wondered how, exactly, he knew of Paladin interrogation tactics.

Beside her, Percival stepped forward and Nimue gripped his arm to stop him. “We won’t tell” he said steadily, looking the man squarely in the eye. “I’ve already been in Brother Salt’s kitchens and I didn’t break then, either.”

“And if you let us go,” Nimue rushed to add, “we won’t be caught and you won’t have to worry at all.”

She saw his eyes flick back and forth between them, finally coming to rest on the small boy standing so resolutely before him. Percival returned the man’s gaze without flinching, though Nimue felt his pulse racing in his wrist.

Finally, the smith lowered the sword. He looked again at the fragile sapling standing in the doorway, and his eyes narrowed. “Get out,” he spat. “And destroy that on your way out. And if they  _ do _ catch you—” He turned back to them with a chilling glare, “I will do whatever is necessary to protect my family.”

“Thank you” Nimue murmured, but the smith had already dropped the sword back onto the bench, then turned and strode into the back of the shop.

She expelled the breath she had been holding in a long rush, then tugged Percival toward the door. “Come on, they’ll be closing the gates any second!”

Stumbling to the ground and grasping the sapling to rip it up by the roots, Nimue suddenly realized that a second plant had grown while they had been pleading with the smith. A trumpet-shaped purple flower now twined itself around the slender ash trunk, open wide despite the dim light in the doorway. A Morning Glory.

Knowing they had only precious moments to escape, Nimue wrenched the tiny tree upward, tearing it from the earth as her mind feverishly worked to understand this new offering.  _ To the Fey, Morning Glories represent love or mortality. But…. If Lancelot sent this, would he know that? Morning Glories bloom in the dawn. In the dawn…. At sunrise. In the East. _

Nimue smiled to herself.  _ You want us to go to the Eastern gate. We are born in the dawn, to pass in the twilight. To pass through the gates in the twilight. Very clever, Lancelot. _

Tucking the tiny tree behind a barrel and turning to Percival, she fixed him with a stern look. “We’re going to the Eastern gate. If I say run, you run. No arguments and no looking back.” He opened his mouth to protest and she cut him off, “That’s an order, as your queen.” The boy’s mouth snapped closed and he glared at her, but nodded in grudging agreement.

Nimue crouched in the doorway, listening for the sounds of roaming Paladins. Not too distant, she could hear their horses milling about, but she heard but few faint voices. Poking her head cautiously around the door, she gazed the several hundred paces toward the central square and the unfinished cathedral. Sure enough, a few of the Paladins were there tending to their horses, but there was no sign of Iris or the black-cloaked warriors she had spotted with them. Nimue turned her head the other way, toward the Eastern Gate which still stood open in the distance, though the wall now shone orange with the dying sunlight.

She scanned the long avenue for dangers, but it seemed to be mostly empty, with only a few vendors still closing up their shops before nightfall. Their best chance of avoiding attention was to stroll toward the gate as casually as possible. Taking Percival’s hand and giving him a smile that she hoped was encouraging, Nimue stepped out into the street.

The feeling of being exposed nearly overwhelmed her calm reserve as they began to walk, slowly and deliberately, toward the exit. With Percival nearly crushing her hand, Nimue focused on placing one foot in front of the next, eyes fixed firmly on the open gate. Her peripheral vision was a blur of low brown buildings, but every interruption or spot of color sent her stomach spiraling with fear.

One step, then another. And another. The young woman and boy passed more shops and modest homes, and Nimue’s heart pounded harder when she realized they had passed the halfway point. The setting sun slanted sharper at their backs, bathing the town in a wash of oranges and pinks. The gate grew larger before them, and she began to imagine that they might simply walk right out of Kingsbridge without the Paladins ever knowing they had been there.

No sooner had the thought entered her mind than two figures in red rounded the building ahead of them, deep in conversation. Her stomach dropped. In the same instant, a tiny spot of purple bloomed in her peripheral vision, and she lurched toward it on instinct. A second later, she and Percival found themselves in a narrow alley. They pressed their backs to the wall and Nimue looked down.

Another Morning Glory grew along the wall of the shadowed alley. The voices of the approaching Paladins grew louder, and Nimue turned away with the childish thought that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her. But farther down the alley, she saw more purple flowers sprouting until they suddenly disappeared around a corner.

Yanking Percival after her, Nimue plunged down the path, both eyes on the ground as one bloom after another opened to mark their way. Squeezing through narrow spaces and climbing over piles of garbage, they snaked through the maze of Kingsbridge as the sky overhead faded from pink to purple, and Nimue tried to tell herself that the gates would still be open when they arrived. They had to be, or else why would Lancelot lead them there?

Up ahead, she spotted a sliver of light and realized that they had made their way back to the main artery leading to the Eastern gate. Once again cautiously leaning out to survey the street, she nearly cried with relief when she realized they were only steps from the gate. They had made it.

But even as she watched, she heard one man call to another, and then a horrible clanking sound split the twilight air. They were lowering the portcullis.

Panic shot through her veins as she dragged Percival out into the street, all thought of caution forgotten. They had to get out, now! Her feet carried her forward even as the weight of her full pack dragged on her back.  _ Just a few more steps. Almost there. _

“Hey, you there!” A man’s voice sounded from behind her, but Nimue kept going.  _ Almost there. _

“I’m talking to you!” The voice was irritable now, and closer. The slow, steady clanking of the portcullis rang like a death knell before her.

“I said—” The owner of the irritable voice stepped in front of her, his red cassock swaying with his momentum. “You. Stop. Open your packs.”

Nimue felt the panic begin to overwhelm her, voices rising up in the back of her mind, knowing there were only seconds before the leafy markings broke over her face and revealed them both.

Fighting for calm, she responded “Why, brother?”

The ugly Paladin smirked at her, his glassy eyes shifting to the boy at her side with something that was almost a leer.  _ I’ll kill you, _ Nimue thought, her cheeks prickling as the enraged whispers grew louder.

“Running toward the gate at sunset with full bags? You must have stolen something. Now open those packs, or—”

He was interrupted by a shout from the guard atop the gate, who began waving angrily at his counterpart on the ground. Nimue realized suddenly that the portcullis had stopped lowering, and in fact seemed to be stuck somewhere around her shoulder-level. The Red Paladin before her snorted at the bickering guards, then turned back to her with a vicious glare, opening his mouth to finish threatening her.

Instantly, something over her shoulder caught his eyes and they widened in shock. “Wha—?” A flash of yellow illuminated his face and in the next second he seemed to forget all about her. “Fire!” he bellowed. “Fire! There’s fire, brothers! Raise the alarm!” He stumbled away from her, lurching toward the guard and shouting at him to get help.

Without a word, the two Fey bolted for the gate as the yells and crackling of flames rose up behind them. Nimue’s legs and lungs burned as she ran, the frozen portcullis looming ahead of her like a spider’s web. The voices rang in her ears, urging her onward until she was finally ducking under the grate, sparing only a second for a glance to the side when a speck of purple burst into view.

Had she not been running for her life, she might have gasped in shock. Standing wedged beneath the portcullis was a small ash tree, growing right where the grate would normally be lowered. The little tree was split down the center with the weight of the iron gate, but still it held, with a tiny spray of flowers around its base.

Now outside the walls, Nimue and Percival pelted toward the bridge without slowing their pace, even as more shouting guards rushed past them, carrying buckets of water toward the fire. Though the thrill of terror carried her forward, Nimue felt her strength flagging as the exhaustion of the day caught up with her.  _ Keep running, _ she thought.  _ Just keep going. _

They had just reached the bridge when a figure stepped from the shadows. Unable to slow her momentum, Nimue dropped Percival’s hand and raised both of her own, prepared to fight this new assailant with her last remaining strength just to give the boy enough time to escape. She slammed into the figure, but he hardly stumbled at all, absorbing the impact before standing again, his hands lightly skimming her elbows as he steadied her.

She smelled wood, pine, a blend of earthy aromas. Chamomile. Lemon balm.

Nimue let out a shuddering breath. _“Lancelot.”_

He didn’t respond, but pulled her forward across the bridge as Percival scurried alongside them. The young man’s touch was no longer soft, but he now grasped her arm in a bruising grip as if afraid she might slip away. Though the exhaustion dragged at her limbs, Nimue allowed him to propel her over the planks and off the road, back into the shelter of the forest.

The darkness fell quickly now, and with it the night grew colder as it had done for several days past. Nimue thought longingly of the fresh wool garments in her pack, wondering if they would shiver all night, as they would have to avoid a fire until they were far enough away from Kingsbridge to trust that they were not pursued. She wanted to apologize for nearly getting caught, to thank Lancelot for rescuing them, and to ask him how he had managed to connect with the Hidden, but her thoughts were growing sluggish and jumbled. Returning her attention to the steps in front of her, she focused only on placing one foot ahead of the other, and trying not to trip on the uneven ground.

After what might have been minutes or hours, Lancelot’s pace slowed. Nimue stumbled more frequently now, but his hand held her steady, guiding her through the darkness long after her vision had become useless. At some point, he had taken Percival in his other hand, gently pulling him between the trees even as the child began to mumble sleepily.

At last, Lancelot seemed satisfied that they’d put enough distance between themselves and Kingsbridge, and he stopped in a hollow created by the roots of a large tree. Nimue collapsed to the ground, pulling Percival with her, and tucked the boy against her before his usual snoring began. Curling herself around him, she suddenly felt a warm weight drop on her, and realized Lancelot had drawn a blanket from one of their packs and laid it over them.

How desperately she craved sleep. Nimue wanted nothing more than to spill into slumber and not wake for several days, but she found herself fighting it. The darkness lay too thick to see, but she felt Lancelot moving around, almost prowling, and swallowed before whispering, “There’s bread in Percival’s bag.”

There was a pause, then his soft, low voice murmured, “I’m fine. Sleep now.”

“No,” she protested, rasping. “Please. It’s for you. Percival was quite proud of himself for resisting it. You should enjoy it before it grows stale.”

Silence again. Then, she heard him moving around followed by the slight crinkle of paper as he drew the small loaf from the pack. Nimue listened to him chewing for a few minutes, finding the sound oddly satisfying, before voicing what had been on her mind since she had first seen the sapling appear in the doorway.

“How did you do that?”

He swallowed. “Just like you said. Create an intention, surrender it to the Hidden.”

“You’ve heard them before.” It wasn’t a question.

There was another long pause. The nighttime forest sang in the background, soothing as ever, as Lancelot lightly crumpled the remainder of the paper before responding.

“Aye. When we— when the roots healed you on the riverbank. Once at Dubric’s. And…. whenever you are angry.” The last part was spoken almost with the barest hint of mirth, and Nimue was grateful that the darkness hid her blush at the reference to her temper.

“Well, thank you. It was really quite impressive. And better than you coming barreling in with your sword.”

“I considered it, but I thought you might kill me if we survived.”

She grinned in spite of herself. “I’m gratified that you find me so frightening.”

“Terrifying,” he deadpanned, and she stifled a giggle.

Sleep now began gnawing at the edges of her brain, drawing her down into the warm space beneath the blanket, nestled alongside Percival’s gently snoozing form. Still, she fought to stay awake, mumbling, “The fire certainly was lucky, though. We would never have escaped that Paladin if—”

“That was me,” he interrupted, and Nimue was so startled that she sat up, the blanket falling off her shoulder. “There was a torch on the wall behind you. I grew a tree into the flame.”

Somewhat in awe, Nimue still managed to snap “That was reckless.”

“Aye, it was.”

Another long moment passed during which Nimue considered berating him further, but she finally decided it seemed ungrateful, and collapsed back onto the earth. There was a shuffling beside her as Lancelot moved closer, then she felt the blanket again being lifted over her shoulder and tucked gently around her body.

“Sleep,” he whispered, moving away again. “I’ll wake you later to take watch.”

Even in her drowsy state, Nimue heard the anxiety in his voice, the ever present fear of discovery and pursuit, and her heart twisted at the thought that he had never truly known safety or security. Perhaps that was why he had chosen for so many years to be the hunter rather than the hunted. Yet now, he was prey once more.

With the last of her consciousness, Nimue laid a hand on the earth and sent an intention into the soil.  _ Keep us safe while we rest. Give us this one night for peace. _

Sleep claimed her as the song of crickets rose in the night, joined by a chorus of whispers that pressed on the little thicket like warm wool. In the darkness, just a little beyond where even Lancelot’s keen eyes could see, a dense wall of thorns grew around them, shielding the three Fey from the dangerous world of men.


	10. Back to the Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a disturbing dream, Nimue travels back to the Between to try to find out where the Fey have gone. Along the way, she is forced to confront her evolving feelings about Lancelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize that this took so long, but I suspect you all understand that the US election has been pretty all-consuming of everyone's attention lately, so I hope you'll excuse me! As always, thank you for the wonderful, wonderful comments on my last chapter.... I'm really glad the action worked for most people!
> 
> Lots of mystery in this chapter! Please trust that I do have a plan to resolve all of it, which is part of the reason it took so long to write this! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also if the slow burn is killing you, please hang in there! I've got you, I promise!

_A world of deepest blue greeted her eyes. Long, slender reeds danced before the Fey Queen, undulating sensuously on the invisible currents like court performers. Tiny fishes turned pirouettes among the swaying flora, while fat eels curled around one another in perfectly mirrored patterns. The whole lake seemed to breathe, inhaling and exhaling steadily, maintaining always that precise balance. A peaceful, painless domain._

_Nimue raised her eyes to the surface far above, content to see the little circle of light where the sun or the moon shone on the water. It didn’t matter, down here, if it was night or day on land. Here, there was no tyranny of the cosmos, no wars of men to disturb the cycle of life that spiraled without end. She thought, for a moment, that she had left something up there on the surface, something important, but then she dismissed the idea and returned her attention to her court._

_A splash sounded from above, and in spite of herself, Nimue looked up again to see what intruded upon her kingdom. When the flurry of bubbles cleared, she saw a sword with a wide blade and curved crossguard sinking slowly into the darkness. As she watched, runes began to glow on the steel, flashing molten gold against the blue of the lake. And the Fey Queen remembered._

_The Sword of Power._

_Desperation and greed gripped her heart, and Nimue kicked violently upward, stretching out her hand toward the beautiful weapon. My sword, she thought. It has returned to me at last._

_The water offered her no resistance as she swam toward the sword, spinning slowly on its journey into the depths of the lake. She was very nearly there, could almost feel the patterned hilt in her palm, where it belonged._

_A second splash disturbed the water to her right, and Nimue paused in irritation, to see what else had fallen into her realm. The shape of a man bobbed for a moment at the surface, until his sodden clothes dragged him down. He struggled only slightly, but a trail of dark red billowed from his chest, and it was only seconds before his feeble paddling ceased completely._

_Dark blonde curls trailed upward as the man sank, obscuring his face along with the tiny bubbles that puffed from his mouth. Nimue glanced back at the sword and saw that it had plunged deeper into the water, and a sharp panic stabbed her heart. My sword!_

_Turning to dive after it, she looked once more over her shoulder at the dying man. He had begun to roll in the water, revealing his face cast sharply in blue shadows. Dark tears streaked his cheeks, hollowed with pain and sorrow. The Weeping Monk._

_Something tugged at Nimue’s soul, a small voice that cried plaintively that she must see, she must remember. But she pushed the voice away, reasoning that the choices that had led the man to die in her lake were not her concern. It was right for natural consequences to flow from a person’s actions, and death was simply a part of life. Perhaps the world above would be better without the monk in it._

_Without another glance at the sinking man, she dove after the Sword of Power. Darker and darker the lake grew as she swam down, stretching both arms toward the shining blade in joyful anticipation. Nearly there. She felt the eddies of water against her fingertips as the sword spun, and smiled as her hand closed over the hilt…._

Nimue awoke with a sickening sense of disappointment as her hand again clenched on nothing. Beneath the heavy wool blanket, she opened and closed her fingers repeatedly, trying to capture the memory of the Sword’s texture, once more ripped from her grasp. The ache of emptiness radiated up her arm, coiling around her heart and squeezing like an iron band.

_My sword. I nearly had it._

As the young woman stewed in her disappointment, she gradually became aware of other sensations. A warm little body curled against her stomach – Percival, still asleep and snoring softly as he always did. The cool, mossy earth soaking through her clothes. Crisp morning air on her cheek. A heavy, solid weight on her leg.

This last sensation confused her, and Nimue opened her eyes. Percival’s hair, wild and mussed from their flight the day before followed by a fitful night of sleep, blocked her vision. Nimue raised her head. On the other side of the boy lay Lancelot, his weeping eyes still closed, one arm under his head and the other flung over the child. Her eyes followed the line of his extended arm and saw that it grasped his sword, unsheathed and lying flat across her thigh.

She understood his position immediately. With his body and weapon, the young man had formed a line of protection between his companions and any attackers. Had any threat approached, he would have been able to block a blow without having to reach for or unsheathe his sword. He had done this rather than wake her to take watch herself. Feeling the lingering exhaustion in her limbs from the previous day’s excitement, Nimue had to admit that it was a reasonable decision. Still, she marveled both at Lancelot’s newfound comfort with sleeping unguarded, and his instincts toward their protection.

As she allowed her eyes to travel back up to his face, Nimue was suddenly reminded of the other part of her dream, and the iron bands around her heart clenched tighter. Lancelot, falling into the cold darkness with a mortal wound in his chest…. and she had abandoned him. Swam away in pursuit of the Sword, forgetting him as if his life was meaningless. And while she had indulged in this fantasy, he had been here in the corporeal world all along, protecting her from harm.

Guilt now joined the empty ache in her soul, even though she knew that it was only a dream. _Only a dream…._

Still, the shudder she was unable to suppress rippled through her body and disturbed the blade resting on her leg, and in an instant Lancelot had snapped to a crouched position, sword raised and eyes scanning the forest for danger. For a moment, Nimue was struck dumb by the display of his reflexes, then she reached out to calm him.

“Lancelot, no, it’s just me. I’m sorry I woke you.” His head swiveled to her as he blinked away the last of sleep, and then she saw his shoulders tense with what looked like guilt of his own.

“I was going to wake you to take watch, but…. you seemed like you needed the sleep.”

He was right, and somehow that made her feel worse. “I…. thank you.” Nimue met his clear blue eyes, and the image of him sinking into the lake, bubbles rising from his mouth, loomed accusingly in her mind. Breaking his gaze, she scrambled to her feet and looked about for her pack. Finding it, she rummaged inside until she came across another loaf of bread, growing slightly stale but still soft enough to be enjoyed. Breaking off a piece, she handed it to Lancelot, still avoiding his eyes.

As she was about to tear off another piece for herself, the whole loaf was suddenly snatched from her hands and Nimue looked up to find Percival awake, tearing into the bread with ravenous purpose. “Squirrel!” she snapped, slipping back into the use of his nickname in her frustration, “Half of that is mine! Give it back, you little thief.”

“Thief, Nimue?” the boy mumbled around a mouthful of bread, giving her a look of mock indignation. “I’m hurt. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.” He grinned at her with chunks of crust sticking out from between his teeth, then tore off a large piece of the loaf and tossed it back to her. Rolling her eyes, Nimue ate her own bread slowly, as much to savor it as to give herself time to think.

They would need to continue on soon, to put some distance between themselves and Sister Iris, but now that they were supplied for some weeks, Nimue had no idea where they should go. Her original plan had been to return to the Beggar’s Coast and attempt to trace the Fey from there, but not only was it unlikely that anyone would know where Uther’s ships had carried a group of unwanted refugees, she also felt sick at the thought of retracing their steps after every mile had been so hard-won. She knew the Fey had intended to travel North to a less populated area of Britannia, a place of wild moors and forests which had been mostly left to the Druids when humans had settled on the Southern coasts. But that area was vast and somewhat unreliably charted, so wandering aimlessly in the hope of stumbling across the Fey was not much of a plan, either.

Sighing deeply, Nimue sucked the last crumbs of crust from her fingers and wiped them on her already-grimy trousers. The action reminded her of the fresh clothes in her bag, and she suddenly brightened, thinking of what a pleasure it would be to finally put on clean garments. Digging into her pack once more, she drew out several piles of soft wool, a product for which Kingsbridge enjoyed much-deserved renown. She turned to Lancelot and Percival, who were now admiring the boy’s new knife, and held out their clothes.

Lancelot’s eyes rested on the garments in her hand, his brows pinching as if he didn’t quite understand why Nimue was offering them to him. “What?” she asked, feeling that same discomfort she often experienced when she realized he was unfamiliar with simple kindness. “You can’t go around in that forever. It’s not warm enough and it doesn’t fit you right. This will suit you much better.” She resisted the urge to look away, unnerved by his searching gaze, and sighed gratefully when he finally took the clothing from her.

Gathering up her own clothes, Nimue stood. “I’ll change over there. You two stay here and—”

“Can’t I come with you, Nimue?” Percival pleaded. “You might need protection and—”

Lancelot gave him a slight shove, mumbling “You can’t go with her _while she’s changing._ ” Glancing up at her with the hint of a blush on his cheeks as if remembering the last time he had stumbled upon her undressed, he asked with an edge of concern “You’re armed?”

Realizing she had forgotten that, Nimue stooped to draw the long dagger from her pack and held it up to show him. He nodded and seemed to hesitate a moment before saying “Well, call if you do need…. anything.”

Swallowing, Nimue nodded back and then turned toward the thick cluster of trees she had seen perhaps thirty paces away. When she reached them and passed around one of the larger trunks, she was relieved to find the area mostly enclosed by a thick tangle of thornbushes, shielding her from view from nearly every angle.

_In fact…._ The young woman suddenly stiffened as it dawned on her that the thornbushes were too perfectly aligned to be natural. They almost seemed to have been planted here. But who would sow thorns so regularly in the middle of a wild forest? Nimue’s eyes followed the strangely perfect line of tall bushes around the little cluster of trees, and then she realized with another start that they continued farther, arcing in a circle all the way back toward where she had slept. In a rush, the memory came back to her of her tiny prayer to the Hidden the previous night, for a safe space to rest in peace. Had she done this again, in her sleep? Like that first night after meeting Lancelot?

The thought irritated her, given what an apparent prodigy the young man had turned out to be at using magic to help them escape Kingsbridge. Why would the Hidden respond to him in the light of day, but only assist her as she slept? It seemed grossly unfair, and Nimue couldn’t help giving a solid kick to a bed of moss and taking vicious delight in seeing a jagged chunk of it fly into the air.

Despite the temptation to continue stewing in her bitterness, Nimue knew she was wasting time and quickly shed her old tattered garments while inspecting her new ones. Though a dress was somewhat impractical for the traveling they intended to do, there had been no way for her to request anything else for herself from the tailor without arousing suspicion, so she had chosen a simple design that would at least allow her to move freely as needed. She had also selected new breeches, and would tuck the hem of the dress into her belt as she had often done during footraces as a child. The armored corset she would keep as well, for though it was worn only by Fey kind, Nimue was unwilling to forgo the protection it offered just to blend in with the humans.

Running her hand over the fine, soft wool, she allowed herself to spend a few moments admiring the deep evergreen color of the dress. It might have been cheaper for her to choose a simple brown, but with coins jangling in her bag for the first time in her life, Nimue had been unable to resist indulging in this small luxury. Slipping the beautiful fabric over her head, she shivered slightly at the tickle as it slid down her body, and revelled in its fresh scent. As she tightened the lacing at her sides and wrists, Nimue decided that she didn’t regret her splurge one bit. Even Cora and the Fauns might be proud of her in this.

The thought of Cora suddenly reminded her that she still had not solved the problem of finding the Fey, and Nimue hurriedly finished donning her corset and belt. As a finishing touch, she strapped her new dagger to her waist, thinking it was no Sword of Power, but that it was at least much lighter. Running a hand through her tangled hair, Nimue decided that there was not much she could do for it, and opted to simply pull it over her shoulder and braid it into a messy plait. Even her own vanity had its limits, she supposed. Reasonably satisfied with herself, she stepped around the little cluster of trees and cast her eyes back toward where she had left Percival and Lancelot.

Thankfully, they were dressed, Lancelot with his back to her while Percival crouched in front of him, seemingly offering a demonstration of the knife techniques he had mastered. She recognized the new cloak she had purchased for the young man, similar in color to his old one but thicker and far less coarse, as would be necessary as the weather turned. Nimue had been less adventurous with color for Lancelot than for herself, thinking that he would find the most comfort in what was familiar. Still, there was one colorful piece she was very curious to see….

Percival glanced up as she approached, gave her an appraising look, and stated rather bluntly “You look like a Viking, _Your Highness.”_ He gestured to the uncharacteristic plait hanging over her shoulder.

“Better than looking too obviously Fey,” she replied, resisting the urge to self-consciously fiddle with the braid. She was about to ask the boy how he liked his own new clothes when Lancelot turned around.

Nimue sucked in a shaky breath and concentrated on not stumbling.

The former Weeping Monk was completely transformed. Though his new cloak shared the same deep gray as his old tattered one, the finely spun wool appeared almost glossy in the dappled morning light. With his hood down, Nimue could see the soft, light wisps of hair curling around his face, which to her surprise sported a newly-trimmed beard in place of the unruly one that had grown over the last week. Somehow afraid to look in his eyes, she let her gaze drop and admired the one true piece of finery they had purchased at the insistence of the sympathetic tailor. In place of his long overtunic which Nimue had cut away that first day, Lancelot wore an exquisitely-crafted doublet in a deep oceanic blue. Precise quilted stitching traced the contours of his torso, and buckles rather than laces cinched the waist to a perfect fit. A simple linen shirt peeked out from the edges, and black leather cuffs encircled his wrists to complete the ensemble.

Nimue found that her mouth had gone dry and her heart had traveled up into her throat. Finally gathering the courage to look Lancelot in the eye, she croaked, “You shaved.”

His eyes burned into her like blue flames, but she was mercifully rescued by Percival hopping in front of her and waving his new knife dangerously close to her face. “We wanted to test how sharp it is! Not bad, huh?”

Nimue mumbled something in response, still gripped by Lancelot’s intense gaze. She realized suddenly that he had been inspecting her just as she had so deliberately regarded him, and the urge to turn away became nearly unbearable.

Looking just as uncomfortable as she, he swallowed and glanced down at his new doublet. He gestured to it with a graceless flop of the hand, muttering “Seems extravagant.”

“Oh, well, we told the tailor you were dead.”

He blinked at her in total confusion.

She sounded like an idiot. “I mean, we explained our need for men’s clothing by saying we were burying Percival’s father in them. The tailor insisted we take his very best at only a fraction of the price.”

“That was my idea” Percival chimed in proudly, beaming and spinning his knife with reckless delight.

“Very clever” Lancelot murmured, but Nimue wondered how he felt about being cast as the child’s father in their tale.

Deciding that they had spoken quite enough about their new clothes, she turned and pointed to the partially-hidden wall of thorns. “Did you grow those?”

“I…. I don’t think so. Didn’t you?”

“Maybe…. I did ask the Hidden to keep us safe for the night. Perhaps this was their answer.” She glanced back at his face and was unnerved to see him studying her again with that same intensity.

“I said a prayer for safety as well.”

“Oh.” Nimue wasn’t certain if his prayer had been directed to the Christian god or to the Hidden, but the result appeared to have been the same. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered that this was becoming a pattern, with supernatural forces choosing to intervene only when the intent of the prayer was protection…. and frequently only when the two of them were united in that intent.

Shrugging off that thought, Nimue shook her long braid over her shoulder and reverted to her businesslike tone: “So, how far might we need to travel before we can purchase horses without attracting too much attention?”

“We have to know which direction we’re going first” Lancelot murmured. “Do you have any new ideas as to where the Fey might have gone, or are we starting back at Beggars Coast?”

“No” Nimue snapped in response to both questions. Shame and irritation rolled over one another in her stomach. What kind of queen simply lost her people like this?

“Who else knew of the plan to take Uther’s ships?”

She sighed. “Uther himself, I suppose, and whoever commanded those ships. Morgana and Merlin, but….” The words caught in her throat. _But he’s probably dead,_ she thought. _And Morgana is the Widow now, whatever that means._ She shook her head. “Neither of them traveled with the Fey. The only ones who truly know where they are are those who journeyed with them. Arthur, Pym, Kaze….”

“Lancelot, can’t you just…. smell them out for us?” Percival asked, still spinning his new knife distractedly.

The boy wasn’t looking up at his friend, so he missed the pain that skittered across the young man’s face, but Nimue saw. Rushing to distract him from the raw wound, she said firmly, “No. Anyway, we can’t just stumble around Britannia until we find them. We have to at least know a direction.”

Flipping the knife lightly in his hand and catching the flat of the blade, Percival shrugged. “Ask Uther then. You know, monarch to monarch.”

“How, exactly? Send him a letter from the presumed dead Fey Queen who broke her deal with him? Ride right up to Castle Pendragon and ask? Come on, Percival.” His impudence was beginning to test her patience, but he had not even the shame to appear chagrined.

“If we don’t know where to go, then we start by getting some distance from our enemies” came Lancelot’s soft voice once more, his even tone slightly soothing Nimue’s agitation. “We should continue keeping to the woods, though. The roads will not be safe for us.”

Something sparked in her mind at his words…. _Not safe on the road…._

Was it possible? Could there be another way to reach the Fey?

“We…. we might be able to travel by dreams.”

Percival stared at her, baffled. “Say what?”

“Dreams. Memory. It’s an old Druid ritual I learned from Yeva back at Moycraig. One’s consciousness can travel to a shared space called the Between to meet with another.” She paused. “It’s where I first met Merlin.”

“Right, you met the wizard. Still haven’t said why though.”

Nimue hesitated only a moment, then let the truth spill out. “He was— _is_ my father.” She stumbled again over the admission that she did not know if Merlin was still alive, the memory of his body leaking deep red blood returning with a fresh sting.

Percival had fallen silent in apparent shock, but Lancelot made a tiny sound in his throat that sounded like “Ah,” as if something he had been puzzling over had suddenly become clear to him. Too afraid to meet that piercing blue gaze once more, Nimue rushed on with the explanation of her plan, which she now realized had a massive, Merlin-shaped hole in it.

“Shared memory is the path to the Between. If I can, I’ll find Merlin in the same place we met before, and with his power, he will help us find the Fey.” As the words fell from her mouth, she realized how simplistic and childish the idea sounded. A village girl running to her powerful father for help. Pathetic.

The boy and the young man stood silent before her, both appearing to weigh their words carefully. Nimue braced herself for an onslaught of questions she couldn’t answer, wishing she had simply proposed they wander aimlessly in the North until they stumbled across the Fey, when Lancelot finally spoke in his soft voice: “All right. What do you need?”

Unsure whether to be relieved or even more nervous, Nimue directed them to gather small stones for a circle. The ones Yeva had used were little more than pebbles, so she felt certain that no monolithic henge was necessary to draw on that power. On the other hand, there were parts of the ritual that she had not observed carefully: the herbs the elder used in her spell, the incantation she spoke. Even the setting was different enough that Nimue wondered if it was possible to access the Between in daylight, without a host of animal familiars at hand. Truly, she was playing with magic she did not understand. There was every chance that she would simply sit in the stone circle like a fool, without traveling at all. Or she might find her mind trapped in some dream realm, with no tether to draw her consciousness back.

Nimue had successfully convinced herself that her idea was folly and that what they really needed were two fast horses when Percival chirped “Done! Now what?” She looked down at the small circle of white stones on the ground and felt her stomach twist again with anxiety. Gods forgive her, she _wanted_ to feel powerful. She wanted others to see her as powerful, as the formidable sorceress Merlin had foreseen. In her mind, the cruelly honest voice hissed to her that her desire to be feared and respected was far stronger than her practical desire to find the Fey.

She stepped into the ring. Raising her eyes to Lancelot and Percival, Nimue found them staring at her expectantly, as if she might summon some impressive display of power just as she entered the circle. Smiling in a way she hoped appeared confident, she nodded to them, then closed her eyes.

Minutes passed. Forest noises swelled in her consciousness, grounding her firmly in the reality of the secluded wood. Nimue tried to wait patiently, recalling Yeva’s words: "You sit, you breathe, you dream. Memory will come. Maybe good, maybe bad. Pay attention, that is the voice of the Hidden. And that is the road to the Between."

But the only voice she heard was Percival’s, hissing to Lancelot “Is it working? What are we supposed to do?” The young man didn’t seem to respond, but he must have gestured to the child to quiet, as he suddenly fell silent. Nimue tried to ignore them and remain still, but as time continued to plod along, she could hear Percival shifting his weight back and forth, and her frustration boiled over. When a gasp reached her ears, she sighed in resignation and opened her eyes.

Turning to Lancelot with an excuse on her lips to explain her failure, she saw both of them staring at her feet, and looked down. Growing in a thick carpet within the stone ring were small yellow flowers…. poppies, often used in divination and to commune with the spirits. Nimue smiled. Perhaps she was doing something right after all.

Closing her eyes again, she tried to focus on a memory of Merlin in the hope that it would carry her to him. At first, she could only picture him pale and bloody as he had been when she last saw him atop the stone bridge. The image brought bile crawling up her throat, and she banished it quickly with the thought of his gentle but earnest counsel in Grammaire. Nimue remembered how fervently, desperately even, he had tried to dissuade her from giving herself up, and how despite that there had been an undercurrent of pride to his pleas. A pride in her that the man she had thought was her father had never once shown. Grammaire was perhaps the only moment Merlin had briefly seemed like family to her. The family she had lost.

Tears stung behind her closed eyelids and Nimue lifted a hand to press at them, trying to compose herself. As the stinging subsided, she realized that it had come from the sharp scent of vinegar. Herbs, charcoal, wet moss. Something had shifted.

Opening her eyes once more, Nimue was startled to find herself again in the temple of Dewdenn, where she had first met Merlin. She took a step back and bumped into the stone altar. Her heart raced with excitement. _He must be here!_ Nimue whirled, mouth already open to exclaim at having found her father again.

No one was there. Her delight died in her throat as she cast her eyes about the room, suddenly aware of the oppressive silence. The temple had always been quiet, to Nimue’s memory, but now there seemed to be no noise at all. No ambient sounds of the forest outside, nor even the echoes of her light footfalls. The Between might not be the corporeal world, but Nimue remembered it seeming quite real to her senses. This place seemed to be only half-complete, as if some details were missing.

“Merlin?” she called, unsettled again by the way her voice failed to echo in the way she would have expected. No response. She walked slowly around the altar, peering into the dark corners for any sign of the mysterious wizard. As she passed by the place where her mother had given her the sword— where she had died, Nimue shuddered.

Returning to where she had begun, she paused a moment before calling again “Merlin?” Then, softer, “Father?”

Still nothing. Dejected, Nimue turned to the entrance and was surprised to see a sliver of light through the tunnel, as if the forest really did still lie outside. Rushing toward it, she stepped along the stones and stumbled toward the exit, forgetting momentarily that she was here to find Merlin and thinking only that she might see her home again.

Nimue burst through the doorway into the sunlight, but in the next moment she missed a step and fell to her knees. Instead of stone stairs weaving through the narrows of the Iron Wood, she had collapsed upon flat, bare earth, spotted with patches of grass and ivy. Looking up, Nimue sucked in a breath at the broken stone arch curving over her head. This was not Dewdenn at all. The Hidden had brought her somewhere else.

Scrambling to her feel, the young woman spun again, trying to get her bearings. As her eyes fell on the stone bench nestled among the crumbling walls, Nimue realized she had arrived in the ruins of the castle where she and Merlin had met to exchange the sword. Ruins haunted by doomed lovers, he had said.

Sorrow settled over her mind, followed by fear as she realized once more that there were pieces missing from this place constructed in the Between. The light didn’t fall quite right here, and through the gaps in the walls was visible only a haze rather than the lush meadow that had surrounded the castle in reality. And yet again, Merlin was nowhere to be found.

Nimue wandered through the ruins calling for him, her anxiety growing every minute. If the Between created these spaces from shared memory as a meeting place, why would it bring her to such a place if Merlin was not here as well? Was there some ritual he needed to perform first? Did she need to signal him in some way that she wished to meet?

The obvious answer danced tauntingly in the shadow of her mind, bathed in deep red blood. He was dead, of course. She had known from the moment she saw him lying there in the tent, known as he sagged heavier against her as she and Morgana dragged him toward the bridge. This place was only an echo now of the moments they had spent together, even if those moments were mostly painful.

Self-hatred curdled in Nimue’s heart. She had run away from her mother and left her to die, and then after finding her father, she had done much the same to him. Lenore and Merlin were both dead because of her, just like Gawain. Just like Dizier and his wife, and so many others. All she did was hurt and abandon the people who cared for her.

Lost in her self-loathing, Nimue hardly noticed as her feet carried her again to the edge of the ruins. She looked up, and there stood the apple tree that she had caused to bear fruit during her visit with Merlin. But now, it was still bare, nothing but a snarl of black branches against a darkening sky. Taking brisk steps toward it, Nimue snapped off a branch in rage.

The sun passed out from behind a cloud, and when she turned back around, the castle had vanished, replaced instead by the largest tree Nimue had ever seen. It appeared to be a massive oak, its trunk as wide as two or more of the houses from her village and so tall that it vanished into the blinding sunlight. Gnarled branches broad as horses snaked in twisting paths overhead, splaying green leaves that showed no signs of the encroaching Autumn. Nimue nearly toppled backward trying to take in the mammoth tree, awestruck that anything could grow so large. Hushed whispers called to her, and she lurched forward toward the vast and ancient trunk.

As she picked her way around the tree’s giant roots, Nimue realized that this location didn’t seem to be missing parts as the previous two had. Here, everything was crisp and solid, the sounds of wildlife and whistling breezes as bright and sharp as if she had truly been transported to a real place in body as well as mind. But the Between was meant to be constructed from memory, and she was certain she had never been here. _Could this be some manifestation of Merlin’s memory? But if so, where is he?_

“Nimue.” A voice breathed her name.

She stilled, and listened. The air around her was thick with Spring mating songs, in sharp contrast to the eerie silence that had pervaded the temple and castle ruins. Nimue held her breath and strained to hear through the squawks and trills.

Again the voice came, both foreign and achingly familiar: “Nimue.”

It sounded as if it had come from the other side of the tree. Scrambling over more massive roots, some rising nearly to her waist, Nimue made her way around to the other side of the oak, her eyes continually sweeping the trunk and the surrounding beds of moss for the owner of the mysterious voice. But when she emerged from the shadow of the great tree into the sharp morning sun, there was no one.

“Hello?” she called, turning again in a circle. “Mer—Merlin? Father?”

Nothing.

Nimue gave a small scream of frustration, casting about for a stick of some kind that she could wield to vent her fury, in lieu of her beautiful sword. She had heard voices all her life and known them to be true, so she was confident in her senses. But it seemed the Hidden were only toying with her, bringing her to some strange place and offering her no answers and no connection to her only remaining family. The forest gods had not even offered her the consolation of knowing he was alive.

Glancing up, away from the huge tree, she saw that the earth sloped down to a small muddy beach of gently lapping water. Though she heard no voices this time, something about the water called to her, and she trotted down the bank toward it.

Arriving at the edge, Nimue looked sullenly down into her own reflection, cursing the Hidden for bringing her here and wondering how exactly she would snap out of this state. Perhaps Percival and Lancelot might be able to help draw her back, but she had no idea how. What a fool she had been to think she could use magic like this to her own ends, without instruction or guidance. A failed daughter, a failed friend, a failed queen, and now a failed sorceress. How would she ever save the Fey now? Why had the Bride insisted she live if failure would be her legacy?

The memory of the Bride filled her first with shame, then with rage, and Nimue snatched up a stone at her feet and hurled it out over the water. She imagined it falling right onto the ethereal wraith’s veiled head. It was then, in the same instant that she heard the splash, that there was a sniffle off to her left.

Turning to the side, Nimue had another moment of horrible vertigo as the world shifted, for now she was no longer standing on a muddy shore, but on the uneven planks of a wooden dock. Once more trying to steady herself and get her bearings, she swept her gaze around the wharf and realized with a start that she was in Hawksbridge, where she had first attempted to escape her fate. As other places in the Between had been, it was devoid of people, eerily still compared to the usual bustle of the tiny port in reality. But Nimue didn’t believe it was a place she shared in common with Merlin. Why would the Hidden bring her here now?

She heard the sniffle again, and it reminded her that she was perhaps not as alone here as she thought. Turning her attention to the edge of the dock just a few paces away, Nimue saw a young woman standing there, staring out at the gray sea. A young woman with waist-length red hair….

“Pym?”

The girl did not turn around, but Nimue was certain now, her heart beating faster at the sight of her friend. Approaching gingerly, she stepped to the edge of the dock and observed Pym, who still did not seem to sense her there. Eyes still locked on the rolling ocean, the slight Fey girl’s hand was clutched around a pendant on her neck, the other arm wrapped around herself as if trying to hold something in. Light tear-tracks lined her face, and as Nimue watched, she gave another pained sniffle.

Heart twisting in her chest, Nimue recalled the dying Northman who had given Pym the pendant. It had been clear her friend cared for the young man, but she had been too preoccupied with the duties of Fey Queen to give it much thought. Realizing now that Pym grieved for him, Nimue wanted desperately to reach out and comfort her.

“Pym,” she breathed again, her own voice watery now as the despair overtook her.

The girl turned, blinking. “Nimue?”

Shock and relief flooded Nimue’s mind and she nearly collapsed into Pym’s arms, but before she could, Pym took a large step back and regarded her with wide, terrified eyes. “Am I dead?”

“What? No! No, I’m here! You’re here!” Nimue knew she was babbling, but she was so grateful to be seen that she could not collect her thoughts.

“But you’re dead. We heard you were dead.”

“No. No, Pym, I’m fine! I’m just…. _so_ happy to see you!”

Her sweet friend seemed unconvinced, glancing around with ever-increasing trepidation. “Why are we in Hawksbridge? How did we get here? Are you _sure_ we’re not dead?”

Nimue realized she was going to need to get a grip on herself. Pym had no prior experience with magic, so of course she would be afraid. Calming her voice, she spoke gently: “We’re in a place called the Between. It’s a dreamlike state the Hidden have created for us. I’ve been looking for you! You, and Arthur, and the Fey.” Her patience began to slip as all her own unanswered questions raced through her mind. “Please, where are you? Is everyone safe? Did Uther betray you or—”

“How do I know you’re not just some trick the Red Paladins conjured up to convince me to give us away?”

Nimue snorted. “The Red Paladins know magic now?”

“I don’t know, they might!” Pym didn’t seem quite convinced of what she was saying, as if she’d been repeatedly warned to be cautious. “You might be a vision they sent or—”

“Pym, you accidentally dyed your hair green one time trying to make it darker and I hid you for a week, giving you all my own food just so you wouldn’t have to show yourself with green hair.”

“Oh, okay, it’s you.” At last offering a crooked little smile, Pym visibly relaxed as Nimue took a step closer to her, still uncertain whether it was possible to touch another person in the Between.

“Where are you now? Are you still with the Fey?”

“Yes, we’re all together. Well, most of us, anyway. Cumber attacked as we were trying to board the ships.” Nimue opened her mouth to curse at that, but Pym rushed on. “But where are you? We got word that the Red Paladins killed the Wolf-Blood Witch!”

Nimue noted nervously that Sister Iris was not mentioned. “Word from whom? Morgana?”

Pym tilted her head in confusion. “No, we haven’t seen Morgana since we left Grammaire. Arthur is worried sick. Do you know where she is?”

“No.” A sick feeling of loss rose up in her chest, but Nimue forced herself to ask, “And Merlin?”

Still confused, Pym shook her head, watching as her friend absorbed the news. Nimue turned her head to the sea, which had begun to churn and froth under a darkening sky. It was too much. Too much death, too many Fey and allies lost. Too many families destroyed. Her family.

The thought reminded her that she had news for Pym, as well. “I have Squirrel with me,” she said, turning back to the red-haired girl with a small smile. “He’s safe, and he’s driving me mad.”

“Well, just remember that child-murder is generally frowned upon.” Her friend grinned knowingly, but her face fell when she saw Nimue looking suddenly nervous. “What is it?”

Blue eyes marked with dark tears swam in her mind, and Nimue began twisting her hands together, wondering how much she should say. “I’m bringing someone else….” she mumbled.

“Man-Blood?” Pym asked, seeming to assume that would be the reason Nimue was hesitant.

“No, he’s Fey.”

“Then what’s the problem? Unless he’s a traitor….” Nimue stopped breathing, wondering what had given it away. But Pym continued, “You have to be careful. We’ve learned that there are Fey selling information to the Church in exchange for promises of protection. They’ll tell you they will hide you then hand you over to the Paladins. Don’t trust _anyone_.”

The roar of the ocean had grown louder now, nearly drowning out Pym’s words and Nimue’s pounding heart, and she realized that if the Hidden manifested a storm in the Between, their time here may be coming to an end. Panic rising in her mind, Nimue leaned forward, shouting to be heard over the increasing din. “Pym! Where are the Fey? You have to tell me, please!”

A wave crested over the edge of the dock, nearly soaking them both, and Pym stumbled back several steps until she steadied herself. As rain began to fall, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “We’re in the Yellow Wood! Do you hear me, Nimue? The Yellow Wood! Nimue….”

She vanished from view as a second, massive wave crashed into Nimue, sending her reeling across the dock. Still, she heard her name being shouted in the distance: “Nimue! Nimue, come back!” It sounded like Pym, or perhaps Pym when she was younger. “Nimue!” the voice called again through the driving rain, but now it didn’t sound like her friend at all, but a real child. A child trying to hide his fear under irritation….

Hawksbridge had vanished, and now Nimue swam in the dark, cold and deep. Still soaking wet and shivering, she darted her gaze around, trying to determine which way was up and which was down. In the distance, the voice was fading, and she felt a surge of panic that she would be lost in the Between, so terribly similar to drowning in the lonely river. Terrified, she stretched out her hands, searching for any solid thing that would stop her from sinking.

The voice came once more, except this time it was soft and deep, her name little more than an exhale. “Nimue.” Another hand grasped her own, and she clung to its warm certainty as it drew her up, up out of the formless dark. She ran a thumb over the callouses, the dry knuckles, the soft web of veins that pulsed life beneath the skin. The sensations that made up her world had narrowed to simple touch, to just this hand which stood between her and oblivion. Nimue dangled from that hand as if from a prayer, drawing her upward toward salvation.

She snapped into reality with an almost violent abruptness. Every sensation came rushing back, and Nimue realized that it was dark in the forest, that the sounds had changed to the hum of twilight creatures, that she was very cold and wet, and that her mouth was dry as wool. Before her, Percival danced from one foot to another, his look of perturbed concern barely visible in the dim light.

“Nimue! Finally! You’ve been sitting there all creepy _the whole day_. I thought we would have to drown you to wake you up.” She looked down and saw the water bag dangling from his arm, and she suddenly understood why she was so wet.

There was a gentle squeeze on her hand, and Nimue glanced over to see that it was Lancelot who held her firmly by his own, supporting her where she sat still in the stone ring. She followed the line of his arm up to his eyes and saw clear worry there, a subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “You didn’t tell us,” he murmured, seeming to think that covered all the many things she had not told them about this ritual. “Are you well?”

Nimue’s mind reeled with everything she had experienced, and she found she was exhausted as if she had truly traveled all the actual distances represented by her journey in the Between. How would she ever explain it all? And why did the Hidden take her so many places just to get a single piece of information?

At that thought, she turned her face back up to Lancelot. “The Fey are in the Yellow Wood. That’s what Pym said. The Yellow Wood.” Her chin dropped and Nimue sighed. “But I have no idea where that is or what it means. What if it’s a code? It could be any—”

“I know where it is” Lancelot murmured. Nimue felt his heartbeat quicken in their joined hands and resisted the urge to give him an encouraging squeeze. She watched him intently, waiting for him to offer more detail.

Finally, after a long pause, he continued: “It’s an old Fey stronghold in the North. We…. the Paladins never bothered to cleanse it because it was too well protected, but most Fey had moved South centuries ago anyway.” He paused again, searching her eyes as if wondering whether she would become enraged at the reminder of his murderous past. Nimue had felt a pang at his words, but the anger somehow never came. She held his gaze, waiting.

He let out a slow breath. “It’s not on most maps, but I can take us there. I can find the Yellow Wood for you” he finished. There was the subtlest hint of pleading to his low voice, and Nimue wondered why until she remembered that she had told Lancelot he would need to leave them before they reached the Fey.

At the time, she had said it under the pretense of concern for his safety, though the truth was that his presence had simply made her uncomfortable. Now…. things had changed. They needed him. For protection, yes, but for some other reason that she was afraid to examine too closely, Nimue could not imagine continuing on without Lancelot, even if they had the option to hire a sellsword for protection instead. Percival, certainly, would be devastated. And Pym had advised her to trust no one.

Still, it was Pym’s warning that made Nimue hesitate. The danger to Lancelot would be as great as ever if the Fey were on the lookout for traitors. Try as she might, she could not imagine the Fey ever accepting the Weeping Monk as one of them. They would almost certainly try to kill him. And while she supposed they couldn’t be blamed for that, the thought filled her with dread.

“So are we going to this Yellow Wood or are you two going to dance?” Percival’s voice cut into her thoughts, and Nimue dropped Lancelot’s hand on reflex at the boy’s insinuation. She immediately missed the warmth of that touch, but then she was wet and cold all over, so that was hardly surprising, she reasoned.

Looking up at Lancelot again, she saw that the hope had drained from his face, clearly believing her gesture meant she would insist they part ways after all. He began to turn away until Nimue raised her voice. “We’re going to need _two_ horses, one for each of us.” This must have simply seemed further confirmation, however, as Lancelot merely bowed his head and again turned to walk away. A strange desperation bubbled in Nimue’s stomach, and she raised her voice higher, nearly shouting now. “And if you’re not a horrible imp, Percival, we might let you ride with one of us instead of being dragged behind.”

Lancelot stopped moving. Percival started snarking about how they would never be able to handle their horses without his help anyway, but Nimue hardly heard him as she watched the young man slowly turn back to face her.

It was full dark now and she could barely see his face across the little clearing, but she sensed the question in his eyes as they reflected the rising moonlight. _Are you sure?_

Nimue held his gaze with the smallest of smiles. _Yes._ And despite the darkness, she could swear that he smiled back.


	11. Equinox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they approach the new stronghold of the Fey, Lancelot tutors Nimue in swordfighting, encouraging her to indulge in her most violent instincts. But will his lessons protect them from the dangers that lurk in the Yellow Wood?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your enthusiasm and feedback as I continue to move forward with this story!
> 
> Please note that much as I would love to update more frequently, I'm balancing this along with a husband and two young children, a full-time job, and many other interests (as well as sleep, occasionally!). So new chapters will continue to come at whatever rate I can manage, but I do have my outline through the HEA, so I have every intention of finishing!
> 
> Lastly: I consider this chapter to be the end of "Book 1," as a new phase of the story starts in the next chapter, and we meet lots of familiar characters!
> 
> Edit: Please note the updated tags & rating in preparation for upcoming chapters.

“Attack.”

Breathing deeply, Nimue adjusted her grip on the hefty sword hilt, loosening her dominant hand and squeezing with her other as Lancelot had shown her, and swung with all her might.

He sidestepped her easily, spinning away behind her extended arm and landing a light blow on the back of her neck with the long branch he held in his hand.

“You’re dead,” he murmured, without a hint of mirth or sympathy. “Again.”

Fighting the instinct to lash out wildly in retaliation, Nimue took a split second to plant her feet in a steady stance, then swung again. Once more he darted out of reach, taking advantage of her high shoulder this time to strike her in the ribs.

“Dead,” he said again, tapping her side a second time as if to emphasize his point.

“Your lungs are filling with blood, Nimue!” Percival shouted helpfully, as if the thought would encourage her to fight harder. “You’ve only got seconds to live! Are you going to let him win?”

Choosing not to respond with the litany of curses that sprang to mind, Nimue stepped back and raised the blade, eyes narrowed on Lancelot’s lithe, relaxed form standing just out of sword’s reach. The image of his body as he lunged for her ribs flashed in her mind’s eye, and she quickly imitated his form, jabbing toward his right side. As he lowered the branch to block her, she twisted her grip and drew the sword up out of the feint, turning it rapidly until it hurtled toward his exposed neck.

Nimue realized with sudden horror that he would not be able to block in time, and her hand flew to the pommel to arrest the blade’s fall. In the extra half-second that she bought him, Lancelot was able to bring his branch up to protect himself, and the sword buried itself in the sturdy wood.

Nimue smiled. Surely Lancelot would be impressed with her progress now, after she’d very nearly landed a fatal blow to his neck. Blood still pumping with adrenaline, she met his eyes and was shocked to find him glaring at her, his nostrils flaring with rage.

“What was that?” he snarled, shoving the sword away hard enough to make her stumble back a step. “You slowed your strike! Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to kill you!”

“That’s a mistake,” Lancelot growled, inspecting the jagged cut in the branch. “Every strike should be a killing blow. It’s the only way to protect yourself. A show of mercy will get you killed. And this!” He held out the branch and jabbed a finger at the missing chunk of wood created by the blade. “You’ll never cut through anything with that edge alignment! Do you have a death wish?”

“Do _you_?” Nimue sputtered, fury clouding her mind.

That seemed to catch him off-guard, and he swallowed a moment before continuing, a little calmer. “The best way to avoid dying is to kill your opponent quickly. Watch your angles and _never_ pull your strikes. Let the blade fall.”

“I know you’re expecting the Fey will try to kill you,” snapped Nimue, “but I’m not sure why you think they’d try to kill _me_. Or why you think I’d want to kill any of my people, even in self-defense.”

“We agreed I would approach unarmed while you carry my sword. Whatever dangers you may or may not expect, you will be Percival’s and my only defense. We cannot afford your mercy.”

“Oi, I heard that!” The boy appeared suddenly beside them, twirling his knife deftly between his fingers as he often did to show off. “You won’t have to worry about me. Our people would never attack a Knight of the Fey.”

Nimue sighed, glancing back at Lancelot and rolling her eyes. It had been three weeks since they left Kingsbridge on their journey to the Yellow Wood, and Percival still had not tired of telling them of his newly noble status. It had been precocious and almost charming when he had introduced himself to the horse trader as “Sir Percival,” but decidedly less adorable when he was still saying it to an innkeeper a week later. The child had insisted on sharing every detail of his knighting with his companions, right down to the exact words Gawain had used and some horrific images of Brother Salt’s tent that Nimue wished she’d never imagined.

Though the anger was fading from Lancelot’s face, she saw in its wake the clear concern left behind. He gazed down at the boy as Percival chattered away, describing how admired he would be once they found the Fey. She knew that the young man worried, as she did, that the child’s reckless bravado would some day lead him into danger from which they could not save him. In the next moment, Lancelot raised his eyes to Nimue, and she wondered if he carried that same fear for her. Did he imagine that once he handed over his sword, she would be in danger and he would be powerless to help her?

_Well, that’s a ridiculous notion._ Not only could she protect herself even without a blade, but he was truly the one most likely to be at risk when they found the Fey. Which, she reminded herself, would be any day now, based on Lancelot’s memory of the route.

“You’re doing it again.” Percival’s voice, both amused and annoyed, broke into her thoughts, and they both looked down at him as if realizing he was still there. The boy tapped his foot and huffed through his nose in irritation. “Would you _stop_ staring at each other when I’m talking?” Nimue felt her cheeks grow pink with embarrassment, and Lancelot too turned away to busy himself with finding another branch.

“We should get moving soon” she said to Percival as she inspected the sword with far more care than was entirely necessary. “Why don’t you fetch some water while we finish up another drill?”

The boy snorted and turned toward the two horses who grazed at the edge of a small stream. “Sure, Nimue, no problem. I can see you’re _very thirsty_ , after all….”

Face burning, Nimue spun away and stalked toward a patch of reeds at the other end of the clearing. Dropping into a fighting stance again, she tried to remember how to match the angle of the blade to her stroke for a clean cut. On her first slash, most of the reeds were broken and knocked to the side, indicating that her edge alignment was terrible, just as Lancelot had said. The results of her second attempt were much the same.

Irritation bubbled up in her chest, and Nimue thought again of the Sword of Power and how easy everything had been when she’d wielded it. She’d killed so many Red Paladins with the legendary Fey blade that she’d come to believe that she truly was a great swordswoman, that she had somehow earned her status as Fey Queen through more than simple fortune. But now, hacking clumsily at the foliage with this human-made weapon, Nimue felt exposed as a presumptuous fraud. A silly village girl playing at war.

Her frustration spiraled into rage, and she gave another vicious slash at the tall reeds. Again, instead of the clean slice she should have seen, the stalks tumbled over one another like a pile of broken bones.

“You said you cut off Carden’s head with the Sword of Power.”

Nimue stiffened at Lancelot’s voice behind her, at the skepticism in his tone and his uncanny ability to guess the direction of her thoughts. “I did.”

“Then you know what it should feel like. How you meet with no resistance if you turn the blade at the right angle.”

“Doesn’t it disturb you that you’re so intimately familiar with the sensation of beheading someone?” she countered, turning to face him. “Aren’t you haunted by it?”

There was a beat before he responded. “Are you?”

Unable to hold his gaze, Nimue dropped her eyes to where she held his weapon in her hands. Turning it slowly, she watched the gleam of dying sunlight snake along its edge. “When I held the Sword of Power, I could hear the screams of its victims. My victims. I knew the sound of their suffering as surely as the feel of the hilt in my palm. And I relished it.”

The dry Autumn grass rustled softly as Lancelot took a step forward. “And now?”

Nimue swallowed and willed her voice not to shake. “I hear only silence. And I’m afraid.”

“Afraid?”

“Of forgetting the lives I’ve taken. Or of finding it too easy to kill. Of becoming like—”

“Like me, you mean.”

Startled, Nimue glanced up to see the stricken look on his face, made all the more mournful by his tearlike markings. A pang of sympathy shot through her and she rushed to explain herself: “Oh no, I was going to say like Merlin. He warned me that the sword would…. That it would change me. Make me do terrible things.”

“But I have done terrible things. And I have no magical sword to take the blame.” Only an arm’s length ahead of her now, Lancelot had fixed his eyes on the swath of frayed reeds at her feet, his white-knuckled hand clenching the new branch he had retrieved for sparring. Nimue shifted nervously. Somehow, she found it easier to discuss her own violent past than his. In the weeks that they had been traveling, their conversation had focused mostly on sharing survival tips, making plans for how to approach the Fey, and teasing Percival. She had carefully avoided any mention of Lancelot’s traumatic childhood or history as a weapon of the Red Paladins, enjoying instead the rare emergence of his subtle smile, and occasionally even a soft laugh.

Now, a landscape of pain and shame played across his face, and he raised his chin to look her in the eye again. “To answer your question from before, no. I’m not haunted by the lives I’ve taken. I can’t remember any of them. There’s just fire and blood. Nothing else.”

For a long moment, Lancelot stared at her with a look of resigned anticipation, as if he expected her to pass judgement on him. But Nimue found her tongue paralyzed in her throat, struck by the thought that he had no memories of joy to balance the memories of pain, and so had trained himself to remember nothing at all. It explained why he was such an efficient killing machine, but it was also horribly sad. She glanced down once more at the sword in her hand, and suddenly felt the urge to hurl it into the nearby pond.

When she remained silent, Lancelot sighed and moved as if to sheathe a sword, forgetting that he was carrying a stick instead. Tossing it aside, he turned and jerked his head toward Percival and the horses. “That’s enough for today. Let’s keep moving. We’ll reach the Yellow Wood within two days’ journey.”

Watching his retreating form, Nimue felt a flash of anxiety at the thought of how the Fey would react to the Weeping Monk. In truth, she was gambling his life on her tenuous authority as Fey Queen, an authority that she may not even have without the Sword of Power. Turning her eyes to the little pond, she thought of the Bride, and the strange spectre’s insistence that Nimue had a destiny to fulfill. The Fey needed her…. Surely it must mean that she was still queen, and that she still had the power to save her people. Of course they would welcome her back, and Lancelot with her. They would never reject her….

The cool Autumn air sent a shiver through her body, and Nimue turned to rejoin her companions.

The following day found them crossing a vast, open moor, with the wind howling at their backs. It had been nearly a week since they’d left the road and struck into the wilderness, and much of the terrain had been tedious and difficult for the horses. Now, with a wide expanse of sweeping field before them, they could let their mounts gallop as they wished, then fill their bellies with sweet grass when they rested.

On most days, Percival would needle them mercilessly as they ate, but this time the wind was simply too loud, and he gave up after shouting several suggestive jokes into the gale. Still, Nimue noticed him trying to catch Lancelot’s eye, exaggeratedly mouthing something to him about “no chance” as the young man studiously ignored him. They made a halfhearted attempt to spar at one point, but Lancelot refused to meet her eye and the wind carried away any tips he had to offer, so she eventually resorted to practicing with her dagger instead.

They approached the edge of another forest by evening and made camp. As was his wont, Percival snored peacefully through the night, but Nimue struggled to sleep. The idea that the Fey might be only one more day away filled her with a perplexing mix of excitement and dread, but it seemed she was not the only one anticipating the coming meeting. Each time she opened her eyes, she saw Lancelot crouched nearby, scanning the darkness as if expecting an attack. His vigilance made her nervous, and by morning, they were both exhausted and irritable.

As they passed from the open moor into the closer confines of the wood, a hush fell over the little group, with even Percival finally falling silent before her in the saddle. Nimue relaxed slightly now that she was surrounded by the familiar press of trees, reaching out for the voices of the Hidden. Sure enough, their reassuring whispers echoed through her mind, singing to her of the forest’s welcome. _Fey Queen, Fey Queen, Fey Queen,_ they seemed to chant. Yes, this was her domain. She had been a fool for ever doubting that she would take her rightful place upon her return.

Nimue turned to ask Lancelot if he heard the voices, too, but to her surprise she found he had pulled up the hood of his cloak, blocking his face from view. It had been several weeks since he had worn it that way, and even then only for brief interactions with others to avoid being recognized. She had enjoyed his gradually more open and relaxed demeanor, and seeing him raise the hood now felt like nothing so much as a door slamming in her face. Perhaps he was angrier about their tense sword lesson than he had let on.

Turning to face forward again, Nimue felt the heavy slap of his sword against her leg, reminding her that he was unarmed and that she was still vastly inferior with a blade. A wave of bitterness rolled through her, and she had to fight the urge to spur her horse forward and put some distance between them. _So, you dislike being reminded that you’re a murderer? Try not being a murderer, then._

She indulged in this petulant line of thought for several more minutes before her better sense prevailed. It was more likely that he was just nervous about confronting the Fey for the first time since revealing he was Fey himself. It couldn’t be easy, deliberately disarming and making himself vulnerable to people who had good reason to want him dead. Still, he had proved himself formidable even without a weapon when he rescued her and Percival in Kingsbridge.

It occurred to her that her only encounters with the Weeping Monk before waking on the riverbank had not featured him fighting. In Dewdenn, he had merely strolled in among the carnage and knelt to Father Carden. Later, at Yvoire Abbey, he had entered a meeting of the Red Paladins to deliver maps. In reality, however, Nimue had never truly witnessed Lancelot living up to his reputation as a ruthless killer. She almost struggled to imagine it. Trying to conjure an image of the forbidding figure of local legend, she could now picture only the quiet young man with the curling blonde locks as he tried not to smile at Percival’s antics around their campfire. His clear blue eyes as he listened to her describe Fey customs. The brush of his calloused hand when he handed her the reins of her horse.

“Nimueeeee” Percival whined, twisting before her in the saddle. “I need to stop, now.”

“Truly? We’ve barely gone one league yet! Can’t you hold it just a little longer?”

“Not unless you want me to shit in your lap,” he muttered.

Snorting at the child’s characteristic vulgarity, Nimue raised her chin and called to Lancelot, who was riding just a half-length ahead of them, his face shrouded by the heavy cloak. “Lancelot?”

He didn’t respond, and she knew immediately that something was wrong. After a lifetime of always being on guard, his awareness and reflexes were sharp and instantaneous; she had never once had to repeat his name to get his attention. Spurring the horse to catch up to him in the narrow space between the trees, Nimue scanned the forest ahead. A tangle of birch and maple greeted her eye, slowly beginning to reveal their sunset colors as the weather turned. Red-tipped ferns carpeted the earth, undisturbed but for the steady hooves of their own mounts. Drawing alongside the hooded figure, Nimue leaned toward him to lower her voice. “Lancelot.”

There was a beat as he seemed to concentrate intently on a point to the northeast, then his head swiveled to look at her. Beneath the hood, his eyes fell into shadow, and Nimue had the sudden impression that she was addressing a stranger.

Percival had no such thought, apparently. “I need to _go_ , Lancelot.”

“Not yet,” he murmured, turning again to look to the East.

“But I need to go nooooow,” the boy moaned, squirming again so that Nimue had to tighten her hold on him so he wouldn’t fall off.

Another moment passed, then Lancelot sighed and lightly urged his horse to the left. “This way. You can hold it a bit longer.”

“Easy for you to say!” Percival snapped, twisting more than ever now. Nimue turned her horse to follow, hoping that the stoic young man intended to stop soon for the child’s sake.

The terrain suddenly sloped upward, and a few minutes later, she heard the dull roar of a waterfall in the distance. Recalling her last experience with a waterfall, Nimue suppressed a small shiver, but kept following Lancelot and urging Percival to stay still until a mossy knoll appeared just ahead. As they stepped out onto the shallow peak, she could see the top of the waterfall just beyond spilling away from them, far smaller than the cataract at the narrows near Grammaire.

Lancelot swung from his mount and turned to them just as Percival dropped awkwardly from theirs. Pointing to a sparse clump of birch near the water, he ordered “Go there. And stay where I can see you.”

“You want to _watch_ , Lancelot? That’s disgusting.”

Unfazed, the young man jabbed his finger again at the trees. “Be quick.”

“You can’t rush these things, you know. Nature and all that.”

“I thought a Knight of the Fey was ‘one with the land,’” Lancelot responded. “Go be ‘one with the land’ and hurry up.”

Percival hobbled away, duck-footed and muttering. Nimue turned her back to him and watched as Lancelot turned slowly in a circle, seeming to study the space around them. She was becoming increasingly unnerved by being unable to see his eyes, and realized suddenly that he had not met her gaze since their sword lesson two days prior. The feeling of being shut out and rejected intensified, and she glanced about as well, desperate for a way to restart conversation.

A sweep around the little knoll revealed nothing of note, and she did not want to turn around and see Percival doing his business, so Nimue tilted her head back and looked upward instead. And gasped.

Arching overhead was a brilliant mosaic of Autumn leaves, each one glowing like a shard of colored glass bending the late morning sun. Bright golden teardrops of the birch trees wove themselves among the starlike red maple, their sharp points pricking the sky. Between the shuddering leaves, shafts of sunlight winked down at her and painted shifting patterns on the forest floor. For a moment, the shining canopy transported Nimue, the voices of the Hidden rising up once more to greet her and assure her that here, at least, she was queen.

As she strained her neck to take in the scene, the angle of the sun caught her attention. “Oh, it’s the Autumn Equinox,” she mumbled, almost to herself.

But this time, it seemed Lancelot had heard her. “What was that?”

She turned her attention back to him where he hid within the shadow of his cloak. “The Autumn Equinox, midway between the solstices. It’s a Druid festival. We also call it ‘Light of the Water.”

He took a step closer to her. “Why?”

“Because the cardinal directions are associated with the elements. Earth for the North, air for the East, fire for the South. And water for the West.” She gestured toward the slanting light filtering through the leaves overhead. “In the Fall, the sun is in the West, so we celebrate water. The Light of the Water.”

Still he kept his head tilted down and slightly away from her, and Nimue felt her frustration build. _Look at me!_ she wanted to shout. _Talk to me, glare at me, swing a blade at me. Anything!_ Her mind groped for ways to keep his attention. “Don’t you have any festivals at this time of year?”

She instantly regretted the question, berating herself for reminding him again of his painful upbringing. But to her surprise, he responded immediately. “Michaelmas. The Feast of Saint Michael.”

“Who?”

“An angelic warrior who defends humanity against… against the Devil.” Nimue wondered briefly whether Lancelot thought of himself as the valiant hero of that story or as the devil to be cast down. She guessed sadly that it was the latter. Before her, Lancelot took another step forward, then another, gradually coming closer until she could nearly see his eyes.

“Winter is when the forces of darkness are strongest. We pray to Saint Michael for protection against the darkness.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Perhaps for some, that prayer is answered.”

He had stepped into her space now, looming above her and blocking out the dappled sunlight sparkling through the canopy. Nimue could see the full breadth of his self-loathing painted across his face, and her heart twisted with sorrow.

“My mother taught me that the druids have a somewhat different view,” she murmured, willing her voice not to shake as she sought the shadows for his eyes. “The darkness is coming, yes, but it is not to be feared. The sun gladly surrenders to the moon, knowing that in time, she will surrender to him, as well.” She could see his eyes now, sharp and yet soft all at once. “And at least for this moment, on the equinox, they are equals, in perfect balance. This day, there is as much light as darkness.”

Lancelot leaned closer. Nimue’s breathing turned shallow as the edge of his hood descended over her, pulling her into the shadow with him. His thick cloak shut out the light and noise of the forest, and the world contracted to just the space of their shared breaths. In this tiny realm, she was suddenly aware of the textures she could not feel but knew were there: the prickle of his thin beard, the softness of his cheeks, the feathered brush of his eyelashes.

There was no hiding the hitch in her breath now. She could barely breathe at all, waiting for him to…. to do _something_. And if he did…. What would she do? If he did….

Something inside her was lurching forward, straining to draw nearer to the sensations that waited on the other side of that warm darkness. Nimue felt a soft weight on her hip, and realized that Lancelot had rested his hand there. He gave a gentle tug, and she was pulled toward him.

Her eyes drifted closed.

And she felt his breath on her ear as he murmured, “We’re being followed.”

She snapped back to reality as if plunged into a frozen lake.

“Who?” she breathed.

Lancelot kept his voice low, audible only to her within the cocoon created by his cloak. “Man-blood. Not Fey.”

Nimue’s heart began to pound. “Paladins?”

“Not clear. But they’re not armed with arrows or they’d have tried to take us out already.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps they mean us no harm.”

He didn’t respond, but Nimue felt the weight on her hip shift. Lancelot was slowly drawing the sword from its scabbard. At the same time, he drew the long dagger from the sheath on her other hip, pulling it up her body until he laid it hilt-first against her chest. Grasping it in her hand, she felt the puffs of breath on her ear come faster, and he whispered, “Protect Percival. Don’t let him do anything stupid. I’ll handle the rest.”

“No, Lancelot—”

“Nimue.” There was only a hint of warning in the way he said her name, but more than that, it was unmistakably a plea. He was simply the better swordsman. She must give way to him if they were to survive an attack.

“Use the horses as cover,” he murmured, and pulled back, unblocking the sunlight and nearly blinding her.

Heart beating rapidly, Nimue turned to find Percival bounding up to them with a wide grin and a mischievous glint in his eye. “You really should see it, you know. It’s like we have a third horse with us. It’s _so_ large that—” The child’s face suddenly went slack with confusion as he stared at a point over her shoulder, then his expression shifted to terror. “Lancelot! Watch—”

A series of rapid cracks sounded behind her and Nimue had only a second to push Percival to the ground as something heavy whipped overhead and glanced off a tree trunk into the underbrush. Warlike yells sounded from the trees around the knoll and Nimue stumbled to her feet, one hand gripping her dagger and the other dragging the boy by the shirt. “Go!” she shouted, shoving him toward the horses prancing nervously only a few paces away. She heard a loud clang and spun on the spot, heart slamming painfully against her ribs.

A massive man with a long plait and a scattering of iron facial piercings had leapt at Lancelot, hacking at him with a wide, curving axe. Before Nimue could think to react or even worry, Lancelot had dropped into a crouch, allowing the man’s momentum to carry him right over and onto the ground in a graceless sprawl. More shouts sounded from the wood and his attacker made as if to get up, but Lancelot gave him a vicious kick to the head, and the man lay still.

In a single fluid motion, the former Weeping Monk stooped to pull a short sword from his victim’s belt, then turned to raise both weapons just as two new attackers burst from the trees. The clash of metal rang in her bones as the two women, whom Nimue now recognized as Vikings, slashed at Lancelot with another axe and a mace. Blocking expertly, he spun to place one of his opponents between himself and the other, forcing them backward with a series of vicious jabs and cuts.

A shadow fell over Nimue, and she registered the falling blade just as she rolled to the side and raised her arm on instinct. The sword missed, barely, and she lurched forward to slam into the wielder’s elbow, using her body weight to hold down their sword arm as she searched for a soft spot to sink her dagger. Before she could, another axe came down from behind her in a crooked strike that ended embedded in the Viking’s shoulder. The warrior screamed and Nimue felt herself being dragged backward by a small body that shouted “Come _on_ , Nimue! We have to help Lancelot!”

Staggering to her feet once more, she pushed a protesting Percival behind the horses and turned desperately back in Lancelot’s direction, the screeching clash of metal echoing through the clearing. One of the women who had attacked him crouched on the ground, holding her side, while the other had been joined by still another assailant who now pushed him back with a sturdy shield. Nimue watched as Lancelot deftly parried their strokes, dancing just out of range of their blades and occasionally darting to the side to expose their flank. He seemed to be holding his own, but he was still outnumbered, and more shouts now sounded from the trees. They were surrounded.

Nimue squeezed her eyes shut and tried to listen for the Hidden, but before she could summon them, she felt something brush past her and realized that Percival was trying to rejoin the fight. “Squirrel!” she screamed and lunged at him, tackling him just before more Vikings burst from the forest, led by a vicious-looking woman wielding a spear and barking orders in their strange language. Nimue tightened her grip on the squirming boy and tried again to call for the Hidden, but the sounds of metal-on-metal and shouts of pain drew her focus back to Lancelot, who now fought four attackers at once.

Panic seized her mind. They were going to die here, all because she couldn’t call on the Hidden when she needed them. All because she had lost the Sword of Power, which had never failed her. All she ever did was get people killed.

Another beat passed before Nimue suddenly realized that though she and Percival were exposed, no one was attacking them any more. Instead, the woman with the spear and her allies were entirely focused on Lancelot, who was still holding them off with a flurry of harsh blows. Still, something looked…. wrong about the way he was fighting.

Two of the Vikings lunged at him with powerful overhead slashes, and Lancelot expertly blocked them, letting the blades slide down to the crossguard and lock there, the downward pressure keeping them bound. But though their abdomens were now exposed, he chose to raise his smaller sword to slice at an arm, instead. The injured Viking fell away, but the second one broke the bind and made a jab at Lancelot’s stomach. He blocked downward, then brought his other sword around with blinding speed for an overhead strike. But at the last second…. There!

He slowed the blow. Exactly what he had told her to never, ever do. The act of mercy that could end in death. Lancelot was pulling his strikes.

And just as he had warned her, it cost him. The Viking blocked his hit, catching Lancelot’s blade in the curve of a small axehead. Before he could bring his second sword up, a spear thrust forward and struck him deep in the flesh between his neck and shoulder.

Nimue heard herself scream his name, saw the blood pour from the wound and his arm drag uselessly as he staggered back and tried to defend himself with his remaining good arm. Only two strides forward and the woman with the spear would run him through.

For a split second, Nimue heard the crescendo of voices as the pattern of leaves broke over her face, then they were silenced. Now, she heard only one voice thundering through the wood and reverberating in her skull: it was her own.

_“GET AWAY FROM HIM.”_

Her vision grew hazy and narrowed to a pinpoint, but through it she could see the Vikings staring at her in confusion and dawning terror. Then, the trees surrounding them bent into the clearing and twined about their limbs. Screams erupted in the wood, and Nimue drank them in. Roots and branches lashed themselves around arms and necks, and she felt every one of them as if they were her own fingers squeezing slowly into the flesh, making it bulge and split and peel like tender fruit.

Lancelot had been right, after all. Mercy was an invitation to death. But so too was attacking the Fey Queen, the Wolf-Blood Witch. Somewhere in the distance, Nimue heard voices calling her name that might have been Percival and Lancelot, but it didn’t matter. She would show them who truly held the power in this land. She would show the Vikings just as she had shown the Red Paladins.

The dense forest in her mind clenched tighter.

Then, a new voice: “Nimue!”

_It…. it couldn’t be…._

“Nimue! Stop! Please, don’t kill them!”

But she knew that voice, low and resonant, the same one she had first heard singing in a crowded square. The voice that had already called her back once before when bloodlust had seized her soul.

_Arthur._


	12. The Return of the Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nimue, Lancelot, and Percival return to the Yellow Wood with Arthur, and meet some familiar faces. But without the Sword of Power and with a notorious killer of the Fey in tow, Nimue finds that the welcome is not at all what she had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, dear readers! I hope you and your families have stayed safe and healthy in these past few weeks.
> 
> Your comments on my last chapter were so appreciated, and really helped me push through this very difficult chapter. There are more characters to keep track of now, and more plot threads, so a lot of planning goes into every new entry now!
> 
> Next chapter will return to Lancelot's POV for those of you who have been missing being in his head (I have too!), so I hope you enjoy this one in the meantime!

“Nimue, stop! They are friends of the Fey! Let them go!”

Arthur’s voice, raised in desperation, beat at the wall of rage that encased Nimue’s mind. _Kill them, kill them!_ the vengeful echo of her own voice chanted at her. _You are the Wolf-Blood Witch. They are wolves come to take what is yours, and they must pay._

“Nimue, please.” Arthur’s voice had softened and wavered, pleading in the same tone he had used when he had begged her not to turn herself over to Uther.

And she remembered how she had responded to him then: _I trust you._

Yes, she did trust Arthur. The grip on Nimue’s mind loosened, and her vision cleared. Light and sound came rushing back into her consciousness, and she heard the pained gasps of the Vikings as the branches released them. For a moment, she could see Arthur, his too-beautiful face and his soul-deep eyes, then he turned away and knelt before the spear-wielding woman in apparent concern.

The woman who had stabbed Lancelot.

Panic replaced rage in Nimue’s gut and she lurched forward to where Percival and Lancelot crouched on the ground, trying to apply pressure to his wound. Heart pounding and tears pricking at her eyes, she wrenched his hood from his head and shoved the neckline of his torn doublet down. In seconds, her fingers were slick with blood from the puncture just above his collarbone.

Pressing a hand down on it, Nimue tried to think of what she needed to heal him, but all that came out was a weak scolding. “Why did you do that?” she snapped, furious at the watery sound of her voice. She searched Lancelot’s eyes and found them strangely calm and lucid. “Why did you pull your strikes? You told me never to do that, that every strike must be a killing blow! Why would you be so stupid?!”

Seemingly oblivious to the pain of his wound, Lancelot continued to gaze at her, as if he had just discovered something new in her face. Then he spoke in his soft way. “Do you know I haven’t killed anyone since I met you?”

“What?”

“Since we met, I haven’t killed a single person, man or Fey. I’d forgotten what it felt like. And I realized…. I didn’t want to remember.”

Nimue stared at him. He returned her gaze steadily, and it occurred to her suddenly that something _was_ different. An almost imperceptible change, like how the glow of sunrise might creep up before her eyes could adjust to the light.

A small hand passed in front of her, holding a fistful of white flowers. “Here, Nimue” Percival’s voice said. She blinked and sat back slightly, startled to see an entire patch of yarrow had grown riotously around them. At the same moment, she noticed that the blood had stopped pulsing against her hand, and felt a rush of relief at the realization that Lancelot’s wound had missed his arteries after all. He was in no mortal danger.

Just as she was about to begin applying the woundwort, she heard her name again. “Nimue?”

Turning, she saw Arthur now standing, one hand lightly supporting the Viking woman. The rest of the Northmen stood or knelt around them in various states of injury. Every eye regarded her with suspicion, but when she returned to Arthur’s face, she saw there a mixture of confusion, horror, and pity. His eyes darted from Lancelot to Percival to her and back again. At his side, she could see his hand clenching his sword hilt as if prepared to draw it at any moment.

Standing, Nimue faced him, trying to think of how she could possibly explain, when the Viking woman spoke in a hoarse voice.

“Why did you want us to spare this ungrateful Fey bitch? She’s clearly thrown in her lot with your enemies."

“You will address the Fey Queen with more respect,” Arthur snapped back, although he continued to stare at Nimue with an uncharacteristic coldness.

“I will address her however I damn well please! She tried to murder my crew—”

“Because you tried to murder us!” Nimue shouted back, seething. “What do you expect us to do when we’re attacked without provocation?”

“Without provocation?!” It was Arthur who shouted now, his face absolutely incredulous. “Nimue, this is the Weeping Monk! The…. the slaughterer of your people! He killed hundreds of Fey! We were rescuing you from him!”

“Aye, I recall how important it was to _you_ to be the rescuer” she responded acidly, and immediately regretted it. Arthur appeared stung, and for a brief moment she considered how the situation must appear through his eyes. He had surely believed her dead, and was fulfilling his promise to her to protect the Fey. After weeks, she had suddenly appeared in the wood with the monster who had nearly killed him. Of course he was confused, and she was being grossly unfair.

Taking a deep, slow breath, Nimue looked Arthur in the eyes again and murmured, “May I speak with you? Alone?”

He gave her a hard look, then turned back to the Viking woman and whispered something to her. Something about the gesture, of how close he bent to the woman’s beautiful face when he spoke, triggered a string of memories in Nimue’s mind. Soft, earnest kisses. A night of passion before they went their separate ways….

Arthur followed her to the other side of the clearing, and when she finally looked up at him, the suspicion in his face had been replaced with genuine concern.

“We thought you were dead,” he mumbled softly.

“I nearly was. But didn’t Pym tell you I was coming?”

He shook his head. “Very little news reaches us here, but the Paladins have spread the word that the Wolf-Blood Witch was killed by someone they call the Angel of Light.”

Nimue blinked at him a moment, then snorted a short laugh. Arthur knit his brow in confusion. “Sister Iris” she explained, rolling her eyes. “Aye, they _would_ name her that.”

He remained silent a moment, then reached out and took her hand. “I thought I would never see you again. I had such…. regrets. I…”

She swallowed. Arthur’s tenderness, his sweet sincerity struck Nimue with a sharp pang of guilt. He had mourned her, and she had hardly thought of him at all. Cowed by shame and unable to face the adoration in his eyes, Nimue looked down, and was startled to see something growing at their feet. A tiny green stalk covered in hairlike thorns shot upward, unfurling spiky leaves that leaned toward Arthur.

A stinging nettle.

Nimue shot a glance across the clearing at Lancelot. Sure enough, he had fixed Arthur with a steely glare, a muscle working in his jaw as he allowed Percival to tend his wound. Glaring back at him, Nimue stepped on the nettle and ground it into the dirt, then turned her attention back to Arthur.

He was still studying her with apprehension. “Nimue, you’re safe here, with us. The Red Spear and her crew are our allies. Whatever threats the Weeping Monk may have—”

“What? No! He hasn’t threatened me! Quite the opposite, actually….”

“Nimue….”

“I mean it, Arthur. He’s not a danger to us. Not anymore.”

He regarded her with clear disbelief, but seemed loathe to argue when she had so recently returned from the dead. Instead, he swallowed again, then whispered, “And Morgana?”

Another stab of guilt gripped Nimue, and she stumbled over her response. “I…. I don’t know. I last saw her with Merlin at the cataract beyond Grammaire. I believe she’s alive but…. She’s changed, Arthur.”

“Changed?” the fear in his face sharpened, and Nimue tried not to squirm under his gaze.

A shout came from the other end of the clearing, and they both turned to see Percival and the Viking woman spewing curses at one another, apparently over the boy’s refusal to share the yarrow that had grown thick around Lancelot.

Arthur sighed and squeezed Nimue’s hand. “It will be several hours’ travel to the Fey camp. Let’s tend to the wounded and get moving. You can explain on the way.”

The path to the Yellow Wood lay concealed in a deep gorge that cut through the forest, its entrance hidden behind the waterfall at the edge of the clearing where the Vikings had attacked. With the wounded stacked on the few available horses and everyone else on foot, it was a slow journey as they trudged single-file along the creek bed at the bottom of the ravine. Further, Arthur insisted on silence as they walked, since sound echoed off the rocks. It was some hours before the stone walls widened and fell away, making it safe to speak.

As Nimue finished sharing her story of the previous month with Arthur, she kept glancing over her shoulder to where Percival walked just ahead of Lancelot. The boy held his knife out, and his eyes flashed a warning to any Vikings who so much as looked at his friend. Though she might have smiled at Percival’s protectiveness, the sight of Lancelot with his hands bound prompted a fresh rush of anger, and she turned to Arthur.

“It really wasn’t necessary to bind his hands, you know. I told you—”

“Nimue, whatever you experienced with him in the last weeks, he’s a known killer of the Fey. We could not possibly walk in there with the Weeping Monk as anything other than a prisoner. As it is, he’s likely to be a target as soon as he’s recognized.”

A sharp hissing rose in Nimue’s mind and she gripped Lancelot’s sword which was again strapped to her waist, regretting once more that it was not the Sword of Power. Still, it would do. “Anyone who defies me will regret it” she snarled.

At that, Arthur stopped dead and turned to her, so suddenly that the Vikings behind them stumbled to keep from colliding with them. She glanced up at him and was startled to see him looking almost angry with her.

“Why did you come back, Nimue?”

“I…. What? I came back to protect the Fey. They’re still in danger and—”

“To protect the Fey as their queen?”

“Of…. of course.” His hard look unsettled her. “Arthur, why are you asking me this?”

He stared at her a moment longer before responding. “You think you can vanish for weeks as your people are attacked, suffer losses, forge alliances, try to store food for the Winter…. and then just reappear and still be queen? Without the Sword of Power?”

Nimue swallowed, feeling exposed beneath his piercing gaze. When he laid it out like that, it did sound incredibly stupid and childish of her to expect to simply stroll right into the new Fey stronghold and have them welcome her. They would undoubtedly question where she had been and with whom, why she had apparently broken her word to Uther, and above all, where the Sword of the Fey had gone. None of her answers to those questions were likely to satisfy.

As she stood there feeling ridiculous and trying to think of anything to say, the words of the Bride came back to her: _The Fey are not safe. Merlin will not destroy the sword. And there are those who need you still._ Nimue knew, with certainty, that this was where she was meant to be.

Meeting Arthur’s eye, she spoke in a more even tone. “Obviously, I’ve missed quite a lot. Why don’t you catch me up?” Nimue glanced back at the fierce Viking woman who glared at them from a few steps away. “Starting with how you met these charming raiders.”

At that, a small grin crept onto Arthur’s handsome face, and he too stole a look back at the Vikings before turning forward and continuing on. “The Red Spear. Aye, she did rather take us by surprise….”

As the sun fell throughout the afternoon, he described Cumber’s attack at the beach and the sudden appearance of the Red Spear, explaining her grudge and how they had formed an alliance to protect the Fey and take back the Ice Court. He told of the journey north on Uther’s ships, and the decision to travel farther inland in search of a safe haven. He spoke of how, on the wisdom of druid elders like Yeva, they came to find a small enclave of Fey in the Yellow Wood, and had decided to stay at least for the Winter.

Pointing off to the west, Arthur told her that he had negotiated arrangements with local farmers, paying them exorbitant prices for a portion of their harvest in exchange for their silence. “Red Spear was kind enough to lend us some of her most fearsome crewmembers to _encourage_ their cooperation” he smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “As a rule, all Fey stay within the borders of the Yellow Wood, and all outside business is managed by man-bloods.”

“The Fey trust you to do that?” Nimue said, somewhat awed by all Arthur had achieved in the short time he’d been with them.

“Aye. I promised Wroth I would protect them. And I promised you.”

Her heart swelled with pride in him, but there was something else that pricked at her joy, something that looked more like jealousy than she cared to admit.

“And are these borders defensible?” she asked, keeping her tone businesslike.

Arthur smiled and pointed ahead. “See for yourself.” Nimue followed his hand and saw their path led to the juncture between two large, rocky hills, too small to be called mountains, but formidable just the same. She turned a quizzical eye to Arthur and he explained, “The hills form a ring around the wood, with a fresh spring providing water inside. The terrain creates an excellent barrier for defense, but more importantly to the Fey, it serves as a natural stone circle for druid rituals. Yeva has been in her glory since we arrived here.”

He said it as though it were silly, like Yeva was a child with a new toy, but Nimue knew better. A stone circle of this size would be a source of immense power, and the promise of it suddenly crackled in her bones and danced along her skin. Surely with access to that kind of power, she would not need the Sword. She could be respected as the Fey Queen for her skill alone, and not for wielding some historic weapon. The voices in her mind hummed with anticipation.

They had nearly reached the foot of the hills when Arthur veered left into a thicker copse of trees. Following him, Nimue came upon a tunnel hewn from the rock, likely centuries old from the look of it. Behind them, the Vikings helped the wounded dismount, and one of them led the horses away. Then, they ducked into the cavern.

Since it had grown colder in the last weeks, the damp air of the tunnel felt almost warm, and Nimue had the strangest sensation of passing through a living body as they crept slowly along the passageway. Rough torches flickered at wide intervals on the walls, and she found herself ducking more often than not to avoid the low ceilings. After several minutes, a brighter glow appeared around an upcoming corner, and Nimue’s heart began to pound.

Suddenly, Arthur stopped abruptly and turned to her again, his face unreadable in the near-darkness. “You’ll want to keep the prisoner close,” he murmured, the hint of warmth in his voice now gone.

“He has a name, Arthur.”

“His name is the Weeping Monk and as soon as anyone realizes that, we will have a riot on our hands. Keep him close, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He nodded grimly at her, then turned and marched toward the tunnel exit.

Nimue stood staring after him, the thought drumming through her mind that she should have insisted Lancelot leave them days earlier if not weeks. She had expected this, had known he would never be welcome with the Fey. Why had she placed her own comfort, her need for companionship, over his safety?

Further, would he be able to control himself if he was attacked? He might have pulled his strikes in the forest, but that had been fighting humans, like his Red Paladin brothers. Would his years of training and habit kick in when facing a Fey opponent intent on killing him? Why, _why_ hadn’t she forced him to leave when she had the chance?

“Your friend should learn to keep his voice down” came a soft and bitter voice behind her. “It’s likely everyone in Brittania heard his words.”

“Ah, come on, Lancelot” Percival responded jovially, “You know your hearing is just better than anyone else’s.”

Nimue turned to see them standing there, Lancelot’s hands still bound and Percival still wielding his knife, belying his easy tone. Squaring her shoulders, she tried to project as much confidence as possible. “Arthur means well. And he’s right, we should be careful. But don’t worry, I’ll explain everything.”

Lancelot did not respond, but she sensed skepticism in his silence, and her own anxiety increased. Still, there was no sense in delaying the inevitable. “Come on,” she murmured, starting toward the warm sunset glow around the corner.

They stepped out into the open.

Nimue had rather expected the Yellow Wood to be more…. well, yellow, but instead the trees bore the same blend of early Autumn colors as they had outside, the overall effect along with the setting sun lending an orange hue to the scene. Up ahead where the trees thinned, she could see Arthur speaking with a member of the Snake Clan, and a moment later they were joined by a Faun. As Nimue approached, several more Fey rushed up to him, welcoming him back and chattering with requests and complaints. She felt strangely invisible as she stepped up behind him, wondering for the first time if anyone would notice or care that the Fey Queen had returned.

She was debating how to announce her presence when the Viking woman — the Red Spear, Arthur had called her — shoved past her and bellowed “HEALER! Where is that useless Fey bilge-rat? HEALER! Come fix my crew!”

A moment later, Nimue heard someone huffing and puffing up the slope, then a head of long red hair appeared and its owner groused irritably, “Why yes, _Captain,_ of course I’m always at your beck and call when—”

“PYM!” Nimue launched herself at her friend and sent them both sprawling as she hugged her in relief.

“Nimue? Nimue, you’re here! You really are alive, I can’t believe it!”

“Why didn’t you tell Arthur I was coming? You—”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you were real or if I’d just eaten some bad mushrooms….”

Nimue laughed and Pym squeezed her back, both crying and hiccupping in a tangle of joy.

A shadow fell over them as the Red Spear barked “This is all very touching, but I would like my crew to keep some of their limbs, Healer. Especially since this bitch is responsible for their injuries.”

Pym slid a confused pair of eyes between the Viking and her friend, until Nimue smiled and shook her head. “Go ahead, Pym. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up.” Standing, they both grinned at each other once more, then Pym’s gaze settled on a point over Nimue’s shoulder, and her eyes widened.

“Wha—? Nim–Nimue…. Is that….” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “.... the Weeping Monk?”

Thankfully, Percival rescued Nimue from having to respond as he barreled into Pym with his own ferocious hug. Grinning up at her, he said matter-of-factly, “His name’s Lancelot, and he’s Fey, too!”

Murmurs had begun in the small crowd surrounding them, unease rippling through the assembled Fey. Stepping beside her and dropping his voice, Arthur muttered “We need to get him out of sight, quickly. At least before the Tusks realize he’s here.”

Nimue opened her mouth to ask why the Tusks in particular were a problem, but Arthur shook his head and gestured for her to follow him. Glancing back at Lancelot, she found his face unreadable but his eyes sharp, scanning the wood with a prey’s wariness. She felt the urge to grasp his hand, to assure him everything would be all right, but instead she rested her hand on her sword hilt and followed Arthur down the slope.

He seemed to have chosen his path carefully, as they spotted few Fey while weaving through the sparse trees. Those they did see were Fauns or Sky Folk who seemed occupied with their daily tasks, and hardly looked up as they passed. As the sun fell farther and the light dimmed, Nimue felt the anticlimactic nature of their arrival was somehow ominous. After Arthur’s dire warnings, it didn’t seem as though it should be this easy to simply walk into the Yellow Wood with the Weeping Monk.

In minutes, they emerged from the trees into an open space that appeared to be an amphitheater, with a haphazard collection of boulders and fallen trees arranged in a semicircle and sloping down to a stage of sorts. In the center of this area sat a round stone table, and overhead arched a half-dome that seemed to have been cut out of the rockface of one of the hills that Arthur had said surrounded the Yellow Wood. Along the curving wall opposite the seating area was a low dias with a single chair that looked to be woven of branches…. A throne.

Nimue swallowed, hearing hushed voices echoing off the stone walls. At first, she thought it was the Hidden, but a moment later she realized the sound came from a small cluster of Fey standing around the rounded table slab. The next instant, her heart leapt as she recognized them as Cora, Kaze, and Yeva.

“Ah, the Man-Blood” Yeva spat as they approached, causing the other two to look up.

“Arthur, welcome” Kaze said. “The count has come in and…. My queen?” She stared in surprise at the same moment Cora recognized her and exclaimed with delight, slipping back into the language of the Fauns in her excitement.

“We heard you were killed! However did you escape from the Paladins? Where—” Kaze stopped suddenly as her eyes reached Lancelot, and seconds later she had drawn her sword and bared her teeth in a vicious snarl.

Nimue rushed forward. “No! No, Kaze, let me explain. Lancelot is—”

“Who, this murderer?” She jabbed her sword toward the young man accusingly.

Cora planted her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Why did you bring him here? Were you followed?”

“No, I—”

“G’rej will not be pleased with this” Yeva muttered.

Kaze snorted, cutting off Arthur’s attempted explanation. “G’rej is the least of our worries when the Tusks find out.”

It was the second time someone had referenced the Tusks responding to Lancelot’s presence. Nimue’s body tensed and her breaths turned shallow.

“ _That_ is why” Arthur finally cut in, “we need your help and your counsel, to announce that the Fey Queen has returned with the Weeping Monk as her prisoner. _Without_ causing a panic or an outbreak of violence.”

Kaze’s eyes turned to Nimue, giving her an appraising look before asking “Where is the Sword, my queen?”

Nimue allowed the silence to linger a half-second too long before she responded. “The Sword of Power is gone.”

She felt their eyes, their fear, and their judgement as they stared at her, the rising sound of crickets filling the space as the silence stretched. Nimue held her body rigid, determined not to waver under their scrutiny. _I must resume command,_ she thought, desperation creeping at her mind. _I must let them know I can rule without the Sword._

Assuming a haughty tone, she declared, “I must know the status of the Clans. Who commands the Tusks since the Battle of Beggars Coast?”

The others all exchanged looks, and Nimue’s unease grew. “Well?”

“Wroth’s son G’rej has declared himself their general” Kaze replied through gritted teeth. “But he’s been challenged by another.”

“Bu’Luf?” Nimue asked, remembering the name of Wroth’s other son, whose hands she had cut off for killing a human. She felt sick at the memory.

Arthur stepped forward. “Not exactly. You…. neutralized him as a possible threat in Grammaire. No, the challenger is a Tusk named Paryaat.”

“Many Tusks follow him because they believe he is the stronger leader” Kaze explained.

Cora gave a somewhat uncharacteristic snicker. “Strong? He’s nothing but a bully. He’ll kill us all to satisfy his lust for blood.”

“He mourns a brother” Arthur protested, “and ‘blood pays for blood’ is the Tusk way.”

The exhaustion of the long day was beginning to catch up with Nimue, and she found she had little patience for discussing Clan squabbles. Sighing, she snapped “Everyone has lost someone in the past months. We don’t have the luxury of settling blood debts when we’re just trying to survive. This Paryaat can bring his grievance—”

“No, Nimue, you don’t understand….” In the growing darkness, Nimue saw Arthur’s eyes flick to Lancelot, then back to her. “Paryaat’s brother was—”

A guttural scream split the night air, followed by a chorus of deep voices shouting what was unmistakably a war cry. Nimue’s head whipped around as her hand flew to the sword at her waist, and she looked up to see a massive and enraged Tusk atop the arena steps. In one hand he held a flaming torch, and in the other a hooked blade that was nearly the length of his entire body. In seconds, he was joined by more Tusks wielding clubs and maces and chanting their song of violence into the night.

She felt Arthur’s arm brush hers as he stepped beside her and breathed “Bergerum. His brother was Bergerum.”

The name triggered a memory in Nimue’s mind of the story Arthur and Gawain had told after she’d rescued them from the burning mill at Moycraig. A horror story of how the Weeping Monk had captured and slowly tortured a Tusk named Bergerum, how his screams of pain had echoed in the air and Gawain had nearly given himself up before Arthur chose to save the doomed Fey from further suffering with a well-placed arrow.

_Oh, shit._

With an ear-shattering roar, Paryaat pelted down the steps three at a time, his blade raised and his eye trained on Lancelot. Nimue moved to block his path but Arthur was faster, raising his own sword and shouting “Paryaat, stop! Listen!”

“MOVE, MAN-BLOOD!” the enraged Tusk bellowed, swinging wildly with his torch. Arthur dodged the fire, but that gave Paryaat the opening to dart past him and continue barreling toward Lancelot. Nimue had a split-second to think _edge alignment_ before throwing a tight slash into Paryaat’s path and slicing the flaming head of his torch right off. The sudden loss of light disoriented him and he snarled at the darkness, but an instant later he raised his blade again and began swinging in Nimue’s direction. She reacted instinctively, throwing her sword up into a block, but his strike came with such force that it knocked the weapon from her hands.

Now she saw his arm raising up once more, the moonlight flashing off the blade’s hooked edge, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to block or outrun the next slash. Determined not to close her eyes like a coward, she tensed her body as the blade fell, when a loud crack like breaking stone echoed across the domed space and a small ash tree shot up in front of her, trapping Paryaat’s weapon before it could strike.

Nimue’s eyes darted to where Lancelot crouched in the dark, holding back a feral Percival, her thoughts firing rapidly. He would defend them by any means necessary, and his skill as a warrior was greater than anyone present. If the others knew that he had entered the fight, and worse, that he could now wield magic, they would recognize him for the threat he was and would not hesitate to kill him.

She needed to take credit for the tree. And she needed Lancelot to stop fighting and trust her.

As Paryaat screamed above her, trying to wrench his arm from the tree gradually twining itself around his wrist, Nimue let her intention sink into the floor and into the roots that had forced their way up through solid stone. Wrapped around each ash root was a distinctive fingerprint: soft and fragile, yet threaded with molton rage and fear. Gently but urgently, Nimue laid her own intent over the burning roots, cooling their fury and sending _trust me, trust me_ to their source.

After an instant of hesitation, the anger in the roots receded, and she took full control of them as the song of the Hidden rose in her ears. Now Nimue stood, looking the enraged Tusk full in the eye, and raising her arms for effect. More trees burst through the floor, and gasps of horror sounded from her allies and foes alike as she made an impressive display of her power.

“Now, is that any way to greet your queen?” she purred, lips curled in satisfaction.

“YOU ARE NO QUEEN!” Paryaat roared, as the ash tree began to splinter around his hand with the force of his struggle. “You are a mad dog and you cavort with mad dogs!”

“Mad, am I?” Nimue’s mind clenched, and the big Tusk howled as the tree squeezed his wrist tighter.

“Nimue, stop!” Arthur shouted, just as he had when she had ensnared the Vikings. She was _tired_ of him always telling her to stop. Why should she listen to him, anyway?

But Arthur stepped in front of her and lowered his voice so only she could hear him. “Nimue, if you kill or maim him, you will lose the Tusks forever. The Fey _need_ their military skill to survive! If the Tusks mutiny, they will kill humans without prejudice and _all_ the Fey will be blamed for it! You need them with you, not against you!”

She hated how reasonable he was. What had happened to the selfish, impulsive rogue she had met in Hawksbridge?

Nimue huffed, glaring at the struggling Paryaat above her. “What do you advise, then?”

“Give him the justice he deserves. Give him the Weeping Monk.”

_“NO.”_

“ _On trial,_ Nimue. Give him a fair trial. Not even the Fey will oppose that.”

At that, she met his eyes. “I think you overestimate our appetite for fairness.”

Arthur returned her gaze steadily, his mouth set in a grim line. “Put the Weeping Monk on trial, or risk a civil war that destroys your people. It’s the only choice.”

For a moment, Nimue let herself imagine the outcome of his dire warning. In her mind’s eye, she saw the Tusks raiding human villages, trampling children under the hooves of their boars, setting fire to churches, staking rows of body parts on the Roman roads. And the retaliation: Red Paladins, their ranks swelled by outrage at the Tusk atrocities, hunting down the remaining Fey like rats and burning them alive until they became only a myth, a bedtime story to scare human children.

She shuddered. It was too real.

Again, she gave an involuntary glance at Lancelot. Somehow, his eyes were still bright in the darkness, glinting with that soft blue as he met her gaze. And nodded.

Startled, Nimue realized that with his uniquely attuned senses, he had heard everything Arthur had said. And he was agreeing. A trial, then.

Looking up at Paryaat, Nimue squared her shoulders and released her hold on the tree. As the branches retreated, the Tusk fell to the ground, cradling his arm, and Nimue stepped forward to look down into his face.

“Very well,” she said. “We will have a trial.”


	13. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial of the Weeping Monk arrives. When confronted with all of his crimes, Lancelot questions who will stand with him and whether he has any future. Will Nimue try to save him? And does she even want to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I posted my last chapter just before the insurrection at the US Capitol, so it's been a distracting few weeks since then, to say the least. Still, I hope you find this installment worth the wait!
> 
> Please be aware that the angst level here is HIGH, but I have tried to drop in many hints as to where this is going. After this, I'm ready to stop looking backward and start looking forward!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your comments and kudos, which always carry me through!
> 
> ** Trigger Warning for this chapter: Brief suicidal thoughts **

_“Today, brothers, our Weeping Monk will be baptized with blood.”_

_Father Carden’s honeyed voice resounded across the Paladin encampment. On every side, red-clad monks crowded and jostled one another for a good view of their leader and his young protege, who stood silently at the center of their tight circle. Their clamoring for justice, for righteous bloodshed pleased the old priest, and he smiled at them in confident satisfaction._

_“Indeed, this day the devil shall meet his equal! Our brother, this sword of avenging light, shall smite the darkness, cut it out from the heart of this land, and bring us to a new age of holiness and purity.” Raising his arms as if to embrace the crowd, Carden declared “You shall all bear witness to this victory! And may it bring fire and steel to your souls for the battles ahead.”_

_A violent cheer rose from the assembly, echoing in the Weeping Monk’s ears as he stood passively at Father Carden’s side, his hands crossed and his head bowed. He felt no impact from the screams, but allowed them to pass through him as air or water. Neither the cold wind nor the burning sun fazed him, any more than they might have moved a stone. His eyes fixed on nothing, his vision a simple mix of colors, light, and shadow without significance. Such mastery of himself had required a great deal of training, but now it was achieved. The monk was now neither man nor Fey. He was only the sword._

_At his side, Father Carden gestured to a small group of Paladins. “Bring forth the beasts.”_

_There was more jostling, then a gap appeared in the circle and a ragged heap was thrown to the ground at the old priest’s feet. Carden smiled again as the pile of cloth quivered and sobbed. The Weeping Monk felt the tiniest tremor deep in his soul, but quashed it quickly, returning his gaze to nothing and letting the sound of cries filter through him without consequence. A sharp sword passes through anything._

_At his shoulder, Father Carden suddenly leaned close, the steel in his voice now meant for the Weeping Monk’s ears alone. “This is your chance to prove that you are ready to serve the kingdom of God. Cut down every demon that we bring before you without mercy or hesitation. Water the earth with their blood.”_

_The monk gave one small nod, but then his master’s voice dropped even lower, so quiet now that it seemed almost to be a voice in his own head. “If you shed a single tear for any one of them, you will turn your sword on yourself.” The young man stopped breathing, Carden’s words snagging in his mind. “And you know the punishment for such sin. Eternal hellfire shall be yours.”_

_At his feet, the sobbing heap of rags looked up. A Faun. Young, perhaps no older than he was, with a film of soft fuzz still wrapped around her tender antlers. Dark tear tracks lined her delicate face, eyes red and pleading with him._

_Somewhere behind his own eyes, a sharp burn flared. Traitorous tears threatened, and the monk clawed for emptiness, for the placid nothingness he had worked so hard to cultivate._

_The smile in Father Carden’s voice chilled the air: “Begin.”_

_The Weeping Monk raised his sword._

The dawn spit Lancelot out into a world of punishing light. Despite the tight confines of the stone alcove that served as his cell, sunlight always seemed to pierce just so through the fissure in the wall, almost as if it pursued him. Soft moss grew where the sun fell, and though he was willing to suffer the ache of sleeping on the hard stone, Lancelot awoke every day on a spongy bed. His attempts to discipline his own flesh were constantly undermined by a space determined to give him comfort.

His mind flashed on the nightmare and Lancelot swallowed a rush of nausea. Comfortable though his prison may be, there was nothing to soften the horror that haunted his nights these last two weeks. Carden’s ghost gnawed constantly at his consciousness, and there was no Nimue to hold him back. In the first day or two of his imprisonment, she had visited him to be certain he was well-cared for, but then her queenly duties had required her elsewhere, and her visits had stopped. Percival had tried to reassure Lancelot in his own daily visits, but still her absence stung.

He had not realized how much he had come to rely on Nimue’s presence in the month they had traveled together: how the clear blue of her eyes reassured him that he was seen as something more than a sword, or how her smile let him know he could give joy rather than just fear, and sometimes how the rare touch of her hand could let him know that he was not merely a monster. Even her rage had given Lancelot comfort, as she had been so quickly willing to unleash her powers on those who might harm him. For weeks, he had lived under the mantle of her protection, free of Carden’s creeping influence, and in that time he had come to glimpse a new life. A future.

But now Nimue was gone, and when his trial came, she would be reminded of all the atrocities he had ever committed. She would remember that she hated him, as she rightfully should, and he would face the punishment he deserved.

Blinking back at the harsh sun, Lancelot sat up. And realized with a sick jolt that his trial was _today_.

At least he would see her once more. Even if she looked at him with nothing but disgust.

The morning silence was broken by a voice floating down the short passageway outside his cell, which he recognized immediately as Percival making his usual sardonic quips to the guard. As was typical, the guard did not respond, either because they knew better or because they simply didn’t speak the same language. Lancelot had noted that most Fey posted to stand watch over his prison were Fauns, which he suspected was due to them being least likely to murder him in an act of vigilante justice. Other Fey clans were not quite so peaceful.

A moment later, footsteps sounded as Percival skipped up to the rough iron grate over the opening to his cell. “You awake yet, Lancelot?”

“Always.”

“Liar. Want some apples? I nicked them from the Tusks on my way over.” Grinning, the boy opened his cloak to reveal an armful of somewhat bruised apples, then rolled two through the bars.

Lifting one to his mouth, Lancelot eyed him as Percival chomped away on his own apple. “Nice of you to anger the Fey who most want me dead on the day of my trial.”

Percival shrugged and licked his fingers. “They all want you dead. But you’re going to show them you’ve changed and then they’ll understand we need you on our side.” He reached inside his cloak again and drew out a comically large roasted leg of some kind, so big that Lancelot wondered how he’d made it past the guard. “Want some lamb? I nicked this one from the Vikings.”

“So now you’re making enemies of the Red Spear, too?”

The child tore a giant chunk of meat off the leg and held it out to him through the bars. “You’re welcome, half-wit.”

Smiling in spite of himself, Lancelot took the meat and savored it. He was reasonably well-fed by his jailers, but Percival always brought food when he visited, and would become angry if Lancelot refused it. And each day, the boy would express his confidence that his friend would be acquitted, that all the Fey would forgive the Weeping Monk when they heard of how he had fought the Trinity Guard. Lancelot knew better, but Percival’s affection touched him, and he could never quite bring himself to dash the child’s hopes.

He was just finishing the lamb when he detected an unfamiliar scent and heard the faintest shuffle of light feet in the passageway beyond. “Who else is here?”

Confused, Percival glanced over his shoulder, squinting his eyes toward the entrance. There was a pause, and then he turned and barked “Hey! I told you not to gawk at him! Go away!”

“Who _is_ it?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Amvri. She’s been following me here for days, wanting to see you. I’ve told her that you eat Snake Clan girls like her for breakfast, but she won’t leave me alone.”

Lancelot leaned against the grate and strained to see down the narrow hall. In the dim light, a shining pair of curious eyes peered at him, widening when they caught his gaze. Smiling, he murmured “Fortunately, I’ve already had my breakfast today. She can come closer, if she wants.”

Percival huffed indignantly. “Lancelot—”

“It’s fine, Percival. Let her see.” Sitting back, he laid his hands in his lap so he might seem less threatening. For a moment, it seemed like the girl might take flight, but then he heard her footsteps creeping closer, and her face appeared between the bars.

Lightly scaled and tinted green like all Snakes, Amvri’s face at first appeared uncertain, as if part of her thought Percival had been telling the truth. Lancelot chose to remain very still, allowing her to study him in her own time. He wondered if he looked very fearsome now, with his beard and hair growing longer by the day and eyes likely bloodshot from such fitful sleep. But to his surprise, the child appeared to relax after observing him, raising her dark eyes to his with no remaining hint of fear.

“Nimue?” she asked, struggling slightly with the sounds.

The name stabbed Lancelot with fresh pain, and he stumbled over his response. “Aye, she is my…. friend. Is she your friend as well?”

Amvri smiled shyly and nodded, while Percival again huffed his impatience and muttered something about how he was Nimue’s friend first.

Lancelot ignored him. “Your name is Amvri?” Another nod. “That’s very pretty.”

This time the girl’s entire face broke into a broad, genuine smile, and he was struck by the novelty of it. Other than Percival and Nimue, and briefly Father Dubric, no one had ever looked at him with anything like kindness or joy. Children, especially, ran and screamed in terror when he approached. Yet here he sat, possibly on his last day on earth, coaxing smiles out of a lovely little girl who had every reason to fear him.

Oblivious to Percival’s protests, Amvri plopped onto the floor, cross-legged, and scooted closer to the grate. After studying him for another moment, she pointed to Lancelot with a questioning look, then drew a finger down her cheek. _A tear._ She was asking about his markings.

Lancelot’s hand rose as if to touch his face, but then he dropped it back in his lap. “Oh…. yes, they are the mark of the Ash Folk. My…. my clan.” He swallowed painfully, not knowing what else to say. “Where do you come from, Amvri? Ferndown Pond?” She shook her head. “Harrow’s Pond, then?” Nodding, the girl flashed him another brilliant smile, delighted to hear the name of her home.

For a moment, Lancelot returned her smile, but then a memory crept forward of scouting the pond in preparation for a raid, and his stomach twisted with guilt. He may not have personally killed her people, but he was as much responsible for their deaths as any on whom he had drawn a blade. Seeing the change on his face, Amvri tilted her head and drew her brows in concern, and the guilt stabbed deeper. As the Weeping Monk, he had brought only pain and destruction to the Fey. It was all he knew how to do, all he could offer.

_Unless…._

Leaning forward, Lancelot whispered to the girl, “Do you remember the Creeping Jenny, Amvri?” Her face showed only confusion, and she shook her head. He tried again. “A yellow flower that grew at the edge of the pond? Where the frogs would play?” Suddenly, her eyes brightened, and she nodded vigorously, making a sound that he guessed was the name for the flower in the Snakes’ language.

Placing a hand on the earthen floor, Lancelot closed his eyes and tugged on the memory of the cheerful yellow flower. At first, harsher images threatened of what Harrow’s Pond must have looked like after the slaughter — the foliage crushed and stained red with blood — but he pushed them away and focused only on the peaceful scene from before. Hundreds of sunshine-bright cups had dotted the shore, and fat frogs had hopped among them, croaking their mating songs across the pond.

An answering song bloomed in his mind, chanting of dawn light and moss and lovers, of families and playing in the cool water of the pond. Beneath his hand, he sensed the moisture in the soil, traced it down to the stream that flowed only a few hundred paces away. Somewhere down there, more frogs chirped and Fey gathered, welcoming the morning much as they had before they were driven from their homes. The song skipped along the water, from the stream through the earth and back to his hand, tickling his palm with mirth.

Lancelot removed his hand, and he heard Amvri’s gasp of delight even before he opened his eyes. Looking down, he saw a single, perfect golden blossom, springing up from the ground like a cup of sunlight.

The Snake girl clapped her hands and giggled, tugging on Percival’s sleeve and pointing excitedly to the little flower. The boy snorted and grumbled, “I’ve seen better,” although Lancelot noticed how hard he worked to suppress a smile of his own at Amvri’s infectious delight. He reached down to pluck the flower for her.

Quickly, the girl’s hand shot through the bars and grabbed his own, stopping him. Startled, Lancelot looked up and saw Amvri shaking her head, glancing down at the flower and then back up at him with a pleading expression. She didn’t want him to pick the blossom; she wanted to let it grow.

Opening his mouth to reassure her, Lancelot was interrupted by the sound of another person approaching his prison. Hope flared that it might be Nimue, but it was not her scent that reached him as heavy footfalls sounded in the passageway. A moment later, the Man-Blood, Arthur, stepped into view.

“What do you want?” Percival snapped impudently, clearly irritated that his visit had been yet again interrupted.

Arthur did not answer him immediately, but instead sought Lancelot’s eyes with a grim but resolute expression. “I’m here to escort you to trial, monk. It’s time.”

When Lancelot stepped into the amphitheater, freshly shaven and bathed and with his fine blue doublet newly mended, a hush fell over the assembled Fey. He suspected that his well-groomed appearance was not the cause of the strained silence, however, and focused on the small platform that had been erected in the center, next to the stone table. As he approached, hands bound, with Arthur just behind him, the whispers began in a dozen tongues. From every side, they hissed their hostility and mistrust until the air was saturated with it.

The temptation rose in Lancelot to fall back on his training and detach himself from his surroundings. It would be so much easier to simply let the fear and hatred of the Fey pass through him, to flow around him like water around a blade. He would be protected from pain and might even find the will to escape, if only he resumed the mantle of the Weeping Monk. How simple it would be to become the beast they all feared…

A second hush pressed on the crowd, and Lancelot raised his head.

_Nimue._

She swept into the court with a whirl of deep umber skirts, a sable cloak cast over her shoulders. A ring of braids crowned her head, threaded with herbs and brilliant Autumn leaves, and she held her gaze high, aloof and royal. Just under the billowing cloak, Lancelot saw his own sword still clasped at her hip. A searing ache bloomed in his chest.

Stepping atop the small platform, Lancelot took in the rest of the scene. Arthur remained standing beside him, while the Fey Elders flanked Nimue on the dias where she sat. Surrounding them on all sides were the Fey clans and a small cluster of curious Vikings, somewhat more blended than Lancelot would have expected, except for the Tusks, who sat in two distinct groups and appeared to have come heavily armed. Recalling the conversation he had observed when they first arrived, he assumed these were the factions which followed G’rej and Paryaat, respectively. G’rej, he noted, seemed to command a calmer but much smaller group of Tusks, while Paryaat held court with a large number of menacing warriors, and when Lancelot caught his eye, his face twisted into a glare of pure hatred.

“Today, we seek justice.”

For the briefest instant, Lancelot wondered who had spoken. His head swiveled in the direction of the voice, and then the pain in his chest flared anew as he realized it was Nimue. She stood to address the Fey, her voice proud and commanding.

“I remind everyone that Fey law is based not in retribution, but in restitution. The offender must compensate the victim for the harm done. Especially in this time of mortal danger to our people, we must choose what is best for all, not just for the few.” Eyes flicking to the side, she raised her head higher. “Vengeance has no place in a Fey court.”

 _“Liar”_ a heavily-accented voice hissed, and all heads turned to a Tusk who stood among Paryaat’s allies. His face twisted into a snarl and the pale Fey raised his arms, displaying for all to see that he had no hands. Both arms ended in stumps. Around him, his fellow Tusks gave shouts of support, their bloodthirst evident in the rising growl.

“Sit down, Bu’luf” snapped another voice. Lancelot turned to see the tall and fierce Bexare warrior — Kaze, he remembered — speaking, her hand gripping the hilt of her sheathed sword. “If you have a grievance, you will bring it on your own time and we will see that you receive justice. But today, you will respect our Queen.”

With a final grunt that made clear he had no such respect, Bu’luf took his seat and Nimue continued: “If any Fey claim to have been harmed by Lancelot, they may—”

“By who?!” Shouts erupted again from the assembled Fey as members of other clans leapt to their feet.

“Does she mean the Weeping Monk?”

“The Grey Monk!”

“Murderer!”

“He burned my mother!”

 _“ENOUGH!”_ Nimue’s voice thundered across the amphitheater, echoing off the curved walls and silencing the protests. Beneath his feet, Lancelot felt a faint rumbling, and noticed that the trees she had grown in the fight against Paryaat had been cut off at the roots, but the cracks in the stone floor were still visible. He braced himself for those trees to come bursting forth once more.

Instead, Nimue seemed to calm herself, though the ice in her voice remained. “Known by many names, Lancelot of the Ash Folk stands accused of crimes against the Fey. Anyone may come forward and declare what harm he has caused them, and demand compensation. The Elders will ensure that all are treated with fairness and equity. Should anyone attempt to obstruct this justice—” here she scowled pointedly at the Tusks, “—they will be removed from this court.”

Murmurs rippled around the crowd. The pang in Lancelot’s gut pulsed as he observed Nimue for the first time as the radiant and terrifying Fey Queen. At her declaration, he felt a fierce pride and admiration for her commanding leadership, but he also mourned the absence of her softness. Gone was the gentle woman who had tended his wounds and grown lemon balm to soothe his anxiety, or the woman who had tumbled trustingly into his arms after he rescued her from Kingsbridge. In her place stood this cold and remote beauty, dispensing justice with iron determination.

And she had not looked at him once.

Retreating to her throne, Nimue sat and gestured to Kaze to proceed. The regal woman raised her voice to the throng: “Come forward to state your claim against the Weeping Monk.”

There was a pause, then a jostling among the seated Fey as several tried to jump to their feet at once. But before any of them could make their way to the center, the Moonwing Elder hobbled down from her place on the dias. Crouching next to the stone table with a large hawk on her shoulder, she glared at Lancelot with the same seething hatred as of all the Fey. Without taking her piercing eyes from him, she rasped, “My people — what is left of them — require rest, as we sleep during the day. Therefore, I will speak for them.”

Kaze nodded. “Go on, Yeva.”

The Moonwing, Yeva, kept her unsettling eyes fixed on Lancelot as if daring him to flinch as she spoke. “This creature knew our habits and used them against us, stalking us by day as we slept, passing to his red master word of our location and the best way to destroy as many of us as possible in a single attack….”

A memory bubbled up in Lancelot’s mind…. _Crouching in the ferns just before dawn, watching as the delicate Moonwings fluttered sleepily up into the shadowed canopy.... Counting them, noting the few warriors and the many frail elders, observing how closely the trees stood to one another and calculating how quickly a fire might spread between them...._

“When the time came for the slaughter, he let his brothers set the blaze while he waited on the ground to catch the stragglers. He listened as we choked and screamed and died before we were even fully awake.”

_Screams and flame. Names called out to one another in hoarse desperation. Coughing…. horrible, hacking coughs and gasps of the dying._

Cold sweat beaded on his skin.

“He let the fire consume us and our home as if we had never existed, and when a few fell or leaped from the trees, he cut them down with his blade.” Yeva had recited all of this with a strange detachment, but on her next words, her voice shook. “Only a handful of children survived to tell this story.”

That he remembered, as well: _Strategically instructing the Paladins to begin the fire the farthest from where the children slept, so that the screams of the others would wake them, then keeping his brothers occupied with those who fell from the trees while watching the children escape out of the corner of his eye. Knowing they would hear the screams of their families ringing in their ears for the rest of their lives, but that they would live._

Lancelot let out a shaky breath, praying for the strength to remain standing. The Moonwing parents, he now realized, had never known whether their children had survived. They died in agony, believing perhaps that their children, too, suffered the same horrors.

 _I am what they say,_ he thought. _I am a monster._

He could not bring himself to look at Nimue. The judgement in her eyes would be more than he could bear.

“.... and what compensation do you ask, Yeva?” Kaze was saying.

The silence pulsed with malice and expectation as the old Moonwing continued to stare at him. Then, her mouth twisted into a vindictive smile. “Since he cannot restore my people, nor our forest, he is fit only to be meat.” She gestured to the hawk on her shoulder. “Marguerite shall have his liver once he is dead.”

“Think again, you ugly crone!” Percival’s shout burst from the crowd, and Lancelot turned to find him standing with an arrow trained on Yeva.

A cacophony of yells and shuffling feet erupted as Fey leapt up in rage and fear. Thinking only of Percival’s safety, Lancelot prepared to lunge from the platform and throw himself in front of the boy, but Arthur anticipated his move and held him back. “She won’t let anyone harm him,” the Man-Blood murmured, and for the first time, Lancelot looked him full in the eye and wondered who this strange man was.

“Squirrel, stop it!” Nimue was shouting, having launched herself off the dias with far less grace than before and with clear fury painted on her face. Marching directly to the little boy, she grasped his arrow by the point and yanked it from his bow. “What are you doing? Do you think—”

“You _can’t_ let them do this, Nimue! You know Lancelot’s not like that any more! You know he—”

“Percival!” she snapped. The boy fell silent, tears of anger sliding down his face.

From where he stood, Lancelot thought he saw something in Nimue’s face soften, and a hand fluttered at her side as if she wished to reach out and embrace the crying child. Instead, she lowered her voice and spoke in that same grim, commanding tone: “The rules apply to everyone, Percival. If you disrupt the trial again, I’ll have you escorted out. Do you understand?”

Glaring at her through his tears, Percival nodded.

Nimue turned back to Yeva. “The other Elders will consider your demands. Is that all?”

Yeva stroked Marguerite’s feathers, still holding Lancelot with a vicious grin. “For now.”

Turning back to the crowd, Nimue called up to them “Who else would like to speak?”

Percival’s hand shot up directly in front of her so quickly that she flinched. There were grumbles among the Fey about how this child was wasting everyone’s time, but Nimue regarded him with all seriousness. “Percival, you have testimony to give about the Weeping Monk?”

“About Lancelot, aye.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aye.”

Nimue gestured for the boy to follow her. The sick feeling in Lancelot’s chest expanded at the realization that she had reverted to calling him “the Weeping Monk,” and he wondered what foolish thing Percival was about to do. His entire world seemed to be burning down around him, and it struck him suddenly that this must have been how the Moonwings felt: knowing that death was coming, slowly and steadily, but also that only pain stood between them and that last oblivion.

As Percival stepped into position beside the round table, Nimue returned to her throne and said, “You may begin, Percival.”

Shooting a glance at Lancelot and giving him a reckless smile, the child raised his voice and practically shouted at the assembly. “Lancelot saved my life twice— No, three times! Maybe four! Even though he knew that I was Fey! And he saved Nimue, too! He’s not like those Red Paladin scum, he’s—”

“Percival, do you understand the purpose of this trial?” Kaze asked.

“Of course, you want to know what Lancelot did and I’m telling you. He stopped killing Fey and he started saving them instead. The first time he saved me was when he let me go after he killed Josse and Grim and—”

“He killed Josse?” Nimue’s voice came with a subtle shake.

Percival stared at her, his eyes wide, and then his face went rigid with horror.

Nimue stood. “Percival, are you saying he killed Josse and Grim? How? What happened?”

Terrified, the boy clamped his jaw shut and shook his head, fresh tears now falling down his cheeks.

“Percival, I command you to tell me the truth!”

“But that was before!” he wailed, hands flailing in desperation. “That was when that pig Carden was controlling him and…. He didn’t know he was good yet! He just….”

Lancelot nearly doubled over from the lilt of pain in their voices.

The boy was shaking his head now, crying softly and stomping his foot. “Lancelot is a good person. He’s my friend….”

A long moment passed where nothing could be heard but the whispers of the Fey and Percival’s soft weeping. Finally, Kaze stepped forward and guided the child away, saying “Thank you, Percival.” Raising her head, she called to the rest of them, “Who will speak next?”

Again the crowd jostled one another for the right to be the next witness, but this time it was the Faun Elder who approached the table, pulling a small girl along by the hand. Standing before the dias, they bowed slightly to Nimue and the woman spoke: “This is Elain. She wishes to speak, and I will be her interpreter.”

Nimue nodded seriously. “Very well, Cora. We will hear Elain’s testimony.”

Still dazed from Percival’s tormented witness, Lancelot heard this exchange as if through a layer of thick wool. The stone floor seemed to grow closer and closer, and he realized he was about to collapse when a strong hand grasped his elbow. “Do you need a moment?” Arthur muttered, his mouth barely moving so that no one else could tell he spoke.

A rush of gratitude flooded Lancelot’s senses, and he found it was enough for him to gather his strength and plant himself more steadily on the platform. “No, thank you,” he murmured in response, and Arthur stepped back.

On the other side of the table, the Faun child was relating her story to Cora, who translated: “My Mamas tended a small farm in the Minotaur. It’s been in our family for seven generations, or at least that’s what Mama Nia said when she and Mama Carys argued over whether we should leave to flee the Red Paladins.” Cora paused here to allow Elain to give a great sniffle, waiting patiently for the girl to continue.

“We grew mostly barley, but also some wheat. Fey and Man-Bloods for miles around relied on us, and Mama Nia said it was an honor to feed them. Our harvest this year was going to be the biggest ever, but then….” Elain trailed off again, staring at the floor as if lost in memory. Then, she raised her eyes to Lancelot and pointed an accusing finger at him, her voice gathering strength and volume as she hurled the soft syllables of her language at him.

“Him, the Weeping Monk! He came and burned our fields! His arrows landed in our barn, and our home, and—” A loud hiccup rocked the girl’s body, and then her words tumbled out in such a tearful mess that Cora had to ask her to repeat herself. “An…. an arrow struck my Mama Carys! She burned there, right before my eyes, and my Mama Nia was burned trying to save her. She was still alive when she bade me run into the forest.”

 _Flame and screams._ In his mind’s eye, Lancelot’s past stretched into a neverending tableau of fire and piercing cries of the dying. The life he had led in the month with Nimue and Percival, a life free of violence and death, seemed so faint now that he wondered if he had imagined it. The future he had pictured was but a paltry wisp of fancy, a fool’s dream that could never be his. Just like all the dreams of the Fey he had snuffed out in his doomed quest for Father Carden’s approval.

_I hope they kill me._

A thick silence had settled over the court as Elain’s words faded. Lancelot stared at his bound hands, breathing in and out and feeling new cracks open with each breath.

“And what compensation do you ask, Elain?” Nimue’s voice no longer wavered, but it had lost some of the forcefulness she had projected earlier.

The girl considered for a moment, then rattled off a short statement to Cora. Blinking, the Faun Elder slowly stood and looked at Lancelot. “I want his tears.”

He stared back at her in confusion. Then it dawned on him. _His tears._ She wanted the markings that identified him as Ash Folk.

Resisting the urge to raise his hands protectively to his face, Lancelot tried not to imagine the sensation of carving the tender flesh from beneath his eyes. He waited to see what Nimue would say, but it seemed she had been shocked into silence as much as the rest of them. Meanwhile, Elain stood there watching him expectantly. Was he to do it now, then?

Perhaps the show of mortification was what they needed. Maybe they needed him to remove the visible signs of his Fey blood in order to make condemning him easier.

He turned to Arthur. “Do you have a knife I can use?”

There was another pause as Arthur turned to Nimue for confirmation, and Cora whispered to Elain. Suddenly, the child shouted “No!”

All heads again turned in her direction, and she tugged on Cora’s arm, speaking urgently and quickly. The Faun Elder tried to calm her, but Elain pointed wildly at Lancelot and then at her own eyes, finally laying a fist over her own heart.

Raising her head, Cora translated again: “She says ‘You misunderstand. I do not want those tears! I want you to mourn my loss. If you are indeed the Weeping Monk, then weep for me and for all who have suffered at your hands. I demand my payment in tears.’”

Lancelot was dumbstruck. For the first time, he made full eye contact with the child, who held his gaze steadily, awaiting his answer. What a strange request, and at the same time so typical of the peaceful Fauns to produce a child who only wanted her pain to be known. She needed her loss to be acknowledged, to feel that genuine sympathy was offered. An absurd idea in a cruel world, but Lancelot marveled at the wisdom of it.

Of course, she had asked him for the one thing he might be unable to give.

Swallowing again, he spoke, focusing solely on her. “I am sorry…. for the pain I have caused you. I would take it back if I could.” Regret threatened to overwhelm him, and he stumbled forward. “I will not give you false tears, Elain. But when they fall, when they are true…. They are yours. I swear it.”

He held her eyes as Cora finished translating. She seemed to study him, as if looking for a hint of insincerity, but after a moment she nodded and spoke directly to him with heavily-accented words. “Born in the dawn.”

Lancelot bowed his head to her. “To pass in the twilight.”

Satisfied, Elain turned away, pulling Cora with her, and all attention returned to the Fey Queen. As the sun had crawled across the sky, the dias in the hollow of the hill had fallen into shadow, and it was now difficult to even see those who sat behind the stone table. Rising, Nimue stepped forward into the light, her face still a mask of royal dignity.

“Anyone else?” she asked, glancing at the Tusks. Lancelot noticed that she didn’t mention G’rej or Paryaat by name, and guessed that she must be trying to avoid showing preference and losing the loyalty of half the clan. It was a dangerous game, to let a cold civil war play out under her nose, but he supposed there were few other choices when Nimue’s people stood on the brink of extinction.

Regardless, her call had the intended effect as Paryaat finally stood. Pointing his long hooked blade at Lancelot, he snarled “We demand justice for the torture and death of my brother Bergerum!” Around him, other Tusks took up the cry, bellowing “For Bergerum!” and “Blood for blood!” across the crowded stadium.

Nimue remained perfectly still, waiting for the shouts to die down. When the Tusks had calmed somewhat, she responded serenely, “Very well, come forth and give your testimony.”

“Ah, but I was not there” Paryaat replied, and Nimue’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. With a wicked grin, the big Tusk turned his eyes again in Lancelot’s direction, and barked “Arthur the Man-Blood shall speak for us! It was he who witnessed my brother’s final moments at the hands of this monster.”

All eyes now turned to Arthur. His handsome face was grim, but absent any surprise; he had clearly known this would happen.

Arthur approached the Fey Queen and gave a small bow. “By your leave, my lady,” he murmured.

She watched him, her expression unreadable from where Lancelot stood, fighting the absurd sense of betrayal that had come over him. Finally, Nimue nodded, and retreated to her throne.

Crossing his hands before himself, Arthur spoke in a clear, resonant voice: “I have seen two Fey killed by the Weeping Monk. The first was a young Tusk named Mogwan, a fine lad who had drawn his own family crest and planned to start a farm in the North, and perhaps some day win back the land that the Paladins had taken from him.... But the monk brought him down with an arrow to the neck….” Arthur blinked at the ground, remembering. Then he raised his head. “He died quickly, at least. And honorably.”

Lancelot had only a vague memory of the chattering Tusk who had made tracking the Fey Guard all too simple, practically child’s play. He had removed the young Fey first as the easier target, then fired his remaining arrow at Arthur. Their brief fight afterward had been but a diversion, a warm-up before he had hoped to face the Green Knight. But hearing details of this Mogwan’s hopes for the future — his farm, his fight to reclaim Tusk land — left Lancelot again sick with guilt. It was a life he himself might have dreamt of, once.

On the other side of the stone table, Arthur cleared his throat. “When the Fey Guard retreated into the mill at Moycraig, Bergerum was struck by a Paladin arrow and was still outside when the Weeping Monk arrived. He…. he tortured Bergerum, and promised to cut him to pieces unless Gawain gave himself up. And it nearly worked.”

Raising his eyes to Lancelot for an instant, Arthur then turned to the assembled Tusks. “I want to be clear that I fired the arrow that killed Bergerum. He was in agony, and any attempt to save him would have cost many more Fey lives. I am sorry, Paryaat.”

The big Tusk stood rigid, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on Arthur, who continued, “I stand by my choice, but it was a choice only made necessary by the actions of the Weeping Monk. He used Bergerum’s suffering only to manipulate Gawain into giving himself up. When that effort failed, he tried to burn us out. Had he succeeded, every Fey in that mill would have died.”

Silence reigned, oppressive and thick. Lancelot groped for emptiness, but the tormented Tusk’s screams echoed in his head. He felt the weight of Bergerum’s body as he twisted the arrow in his back, the tight curl of his abdomen as Lancelot plunged the blade into his liver. Aye, his mind might try to forget, but his body remembered. Every gush of blood, every shriek of pain, every pleading eye that had ever turned on him…. His eyes and ears and limbs knew them all. They lived in him, these tormented ghosts, raking their claws across his soul and crying out for vengeance.

_And Nimue…._

She had heard everything. Knew the truth now. That he was ugly, vicious, soiled, and grotesque. That he was every bit the demon any Fey or human might claim. An abomination. An aberration.

He could not look at her.

Nimue’s voice floated down from the dias: “Thank you, Arthur.” Steps echoed across the court as Arthur resumed his place behind Lancelot.

The queen spoke again: “What do you ask in compensation, Paryaat?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Blood pays for blood. The Tusks demand his life!”

No response came from the throne. Then, Lancelot heard whispers and a shuffling as Nimue rose to her feet. Kaze spoke: “We have heard the testimony of our brothers and sisters. The Fey Queen will now consult with the Elders and return with her decision. Arthur,” she said, turning to him, “Your presence is requested.” A Faun guard stepped forward to take his place, and Arthur followed Nimue and the Elders off the dias.

Lancelot felt as if his entire being were an open wound. He stood before the Fey, exposed in all his raw, bloody horror, and there was nothing to stanch the flow of darkness that leaked from his person. Soon enough, they would cut out the rot and be done with him, and then the people could begin to heal. He needed only to wait.

Minutes passed, then an hour. Some of the Fey grew restless and irritable, with small fights breaking out between rival clans every few minutes. Lancelot waited.

“What are you doing, child? You should not be here. Go back—”

The Faun guard was interrupted by the excited voice of a young child speaking very quickly in a Fey language. Lancelot turned and was startled to see Amvri, the Snake girl who had visited him that morning. Catching his eye, she darted past the guard, holding two fists in the air as she ran.

The child was so excited that she nearly barreled into Lancelot, and he had to steady her with his bound hands. “Amvri, what is it? He’s right, you really should not be here.”

Letting go a string of ecstatic syllables, Amvri turned over her hands and opened her fingers. A shower of tiny yellow blossoms fell from her palms, littering the ground at his feet. Laughing, the girl tossed the remaining petals in the air and began gesturing wildly as she spoke, waving her arms around herself in a large arc, as if to describe a space. She pointed at the ground and swung her arms wide again, still talking as fast as she could in her unfamiliar tongue.

Lancelot watched her, trying to understand, when it dawned on him. The Creeping Jenny. There had been only one when he had left his cell this morning, but here were dozens more of them, and he was certain the little flower was only found naturally near Harrow’s Pond. He knelt before Amvri.

“Did these all grow in my cell?”

Still grinning, Amvri shook her head and stretched her little arms wide once more, waving them around herself in big circles.

“They grew…. everywhere? Even outside the cell?”

The little girl clapped and nodded vigorously, giggling and spinning with pure joy. Suddenly, Amvri stopped and clasped his bound hands with her own, squeezing them tightly. She said a short phrase or word, nodding on each syllable as if to emphasize her point. Falling silent, she watched him expectantly.

Lancelot looked back at her, wanting to understand. She repeated the phrase. And then he knew.

“You’re very welcome, Amvri.”

The child’s smile was nearly brighter than the flowers, and for a moment, Lancelot basked in it.

But then her face fell, and at the same time, an eerie hush descended on the court. Lancelot stood and turned.

Nimue and the Elders had returned. They made their way slowly back to their places on the dias, then stood to face the court. Lancelot’s eyes sought Nimue, who stood with her head bowed just before her throne. Seconds ticked by, and then she lifted her chin and looked directly into his eyes.

His world overturned.

All her cool poise had shattered. The cold, emotionless Fey Queen had been but an act, a performance necessary to regain the loyalty of her people. Now glassy, red-rimmed eyes and a pale, drawn face looked out at him, accusing and begging forgiveness all at once. She drew a shuddering breath, and her lips formed three silent words: _I am sorry._

Lancelot stared back at her, wanting to hold those eyes as long as he could even if it caused him unbearable pain. _I’m sorry, too._

Swallowing, Nimue finally tore her eyes away and squared her shoulders. Placing a hand on his sword as if to steady herself, she raised her head. “Lancelot of the Ash Folk, sometimes called the Weeping Monk, has been found guilty of the murders of Moonwing, Sky Folk, Faun, and Tusk. All Fey are sisters and brothers. An offense against one harms us all.”

She paused, gathering her strength, then continued. “As is their right, the victims’ families have asked for their fair compensation. They have asked the Weeping Monk for his flesh, his tears, and his life. Two of these we can grant, one we cannot. But it is the judgement of the Elders that there is no recompense he can offer for the suffering he has caused. Therefore, we grant the only request that can truly compensate all parties….”

A hollow darkness beckoned to Lancelot.

“The Weeping Monk is sentenced to death.”


	14. The Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his execution approaches, Lancelot learns of new threats to the Fey, says his goodbyes, and considers his legacy. Nimue, his executioner, must make a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you yet again for your patience and your encouraging comments! This was a VERY difficult chapter to craft, but I hope you find it was worth the wait!

Only two days had passed since Lancelot’s trial, but Percival and Amvri had already made three attempts to break him out. The first had been a rather reckless assault on the Faun guard as they escorted him back to his cell, which had resulted in the two of them being carried away and dumped unceremoniously in the stream. The second was an ill-conceived effort to tunnel under the floor, and the last involved Percival setting fire to a half-built Viking dwelling as a distraction. Lancelot heard a great deal of shouting after the fire was extinguished, and then the children did not return. He guessed that they had been placed under guard, and tried not to think that their valiant efforts to free him might be the last time he ever saw them.

Not that he would have gone with them, had any of their attempts succeeded. After a lifetime of constant fear and anxiety living with Father Carden, the idea of again becoming a fugitive, but this time alone with his demons, terrified him far more than his impending execution. Further, Percival would likely want to come with him, and Lancelot would not allow him to leave the safety of his people again. No, not another person would be harmed because of him, Lancelot vowed. He need only wait patiently for death, and then Nimue, Percival, Amvri, and all the Fey would be safe.

But his nightmares tested that resolve.

The grotesque spectre of Father Carden gorged itself on the repressed memories dredged up by the trial. No sooner would the exhaustion finally push Lancelot into sleep than the old priest would appear with his wicked smile and cajoling voice, encouraging him to tear the demon flesh from his bones. Screams and pain would saturate his reality until he would wake in a cold sweat, itching for a scourge. Sometimes he saw Percival’s defiant face among his victims, and sometimes it was Nimue, tears of betrayal falling from her lovely eyes.

Late on the second morning, Lancelot sat with his back pressed to the cell wall, trying to use the pressure of a sharp jutting stone to keep himself awake, when he heard a murmured exchange with the guard. A moment later, Arthur stepped up to the iron grate, and Lancelot felt a sudden numbness.

“Is it time?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“No. Although I’m here to tell you it will be tomorrow.”

 _One more night._ At least he need not suffer Carden’s hauntings much longer. But why had Nimue not come herself? Would she come at all before the end?

Lancelot swallowed and nodded silently. He expected Arthur would leave, having delivered his message, but instead he still stood in the passageway, seemingly on the edge of saying something more.

“Anything else?”

Arthur met his eye. “There is, actually. We need your help.”

“What could you possibly need from me?”

“Your knowledge of the Red Paladins, for one. But before you answer…. know that I can’t grant you clemency…. Only Nimue can do that.”

The reminder that Nimue had such power but chose not to use it struck another blow to Lancelot, and to distract himself he leapt to his feet and crossed to the barred opening. “What do you need to know of the Paladins?”

Rather than answer, Arthur quickly knelt and pulled a parchment from his cloak. Spreading it on the floor, he revealed that it was a map of the Yellow Wood and the surrounding areas, stretching all the way to the distant Roman road and the port just beyond.

Pointing to the same forest where the Vikings had attacked them, Arthur explained “Paladin patrols have been spotted here—” His hand glided across the map, “and here. They don’t seem to have detected our presence but we can’t understand why they’re this far North so close to Winter in the first place.” Arthur pointed to the port. “Uther will know we landed here, but our most recent reports indicate that the Red Paladins are allied with Cumber, not Uther. There’s no reason for the king to share that information with the Church.”

“Unless he’s trying to form a new alliance.”

“A possibility we’ve considered.” He glanced up at Lancelot. “We’re not prepared for a Paladin attack. We have little food stored and few warriors, even with the Tusks.”

 _“‘With the Tusks?’_ Is there some risk of having to fight without the Tusks?”

Arthur rubbed his neck nervously. “Well…. there _was._ Paryaat made clear that he would leave and take his warriors with him unless….”

Realization dawned on Lancelot. “Unless you gave him justice. My execution.”

Appearing somewhat relieved that Lancelot had said it rather than him, Arthur stood. “Aye. Nimue thought she could convince them otherwise, but the Elders agreed that the Fey need the Tusks to survive. She had no choice.”

Lancelot fell silent, gripping the iron grate and staring down at his feet as understanding washed over him. _Of course, I should have known._ A people on the verge of extinction could not risk mutiny and vulnerability for the sake of one convicted murderer. Nimue had made the only choice she could, the right choice to protect the Fey. And in a way, Lancelot too was saving the Fey, by giving his life so that they could remain unified and strong. At the thought, a welcome peace spread through his limbs, and he raised his head to Arthur, who stood still watching him.

“Are there other ways out of the Yellow Wood, hidden ones?”

“Aye.”

“Then run drills and determine how long it would take to evacuate everyone. Have them set aside packs and rations for a sudden journey.”

Arthur gestured to the map. “Shouldn’t we begin fortifying our defenses? The hills form a strong natural barrier—”

“Any fortifying measures you take will attract attention. You are well-hidden here and you want to keep it that way.” Lancelot was focused intently on the map now, his mind reeling with plans. “The surrounding farmers…. Are you sure they won’t betray you?”

“We’ll reassure them of our protection and increase our payments, if we can” Arthur responded, glancing between Lancelot and the map with a similar intensity. “Better to buy their loyalty with gifts than threats.”

Not the approach he might have taken, but Lancelot nodded. “Good. And consider an irrigation ditch here….” He squatted and leaned through the bars, dragging his finger from the stream to the edge of the hills and around the inside of the ring.

“For what?”

“Fire is the greatest threat to this place. The Red Paladins need not starve you out when they can burn you out much faster.” Lancelot tried not to think of when he had used the exact same tactic.

Arthur nodded and stared at the map for a moment. “But the rations and packs to travel…. There is nowhere else to go.”

There was a long pause before Lancelot responded, “I know.”

The two men met one another’s eyes with grim acknowledgement. There was indeed nowhere else for the Fey to go, no safe place, especially not in the Winter. If the Paladins attacked, the best they could hope for was a long, slow death, either here in the Yellow Wood or out in the wilderness.

Swallowing, Arthur stooped and gathered up the map, tucking it back into his cloak. Again he stood and turned to Lancelot, seeming to study him for a long moment. Then, he extended his hand through the bars. “Thank you, Lancelot.”

_Lancelot. Not Monk._

The Green Knight’s face flashed in his mind, along with the broken voice of the fearsome warrior calling out to him: _Brother._ Lancelot stared at Arthur’s hand, trying to understand his simple gesture. A gesture of respect. And farewell.

The two men grasped forearms, shook, and Arthur left. As his footsteps receded, the exhaustion of tormented sleep came roaring back, and Lancelot nearly collapsed on the earthen floor.

Nimue had not wanted him dead. Nor, it seemed, did Arthur. Even Amvri had joined Percival in trying to free him from prison. The idea of so many people wishing him alive, and not just as a weapon, left him reeling. What might his life have been, had he found them sooner? Would he be living peacefully in a Fey forest somewhere, unmolested by Red Paladins? Might he even have friends…. A family?

Visions of that impossible world danced behind his eyes, and in minutes, Lancelot succumbed once more to sleep.

“Lancelot.”

The sound of his name spoken in that voice — so softly, like a prayer — drew him from his exhausted stupor. Carden’s evil grin faded as Lancelot’s eyes adjusted to the morning light slanting through the crack in the wall, casting a warm glow on the newest visitor to his cell.

Nimue.

Lancelot stood, moving slowly to steady himself, and approached her where she stood just inside the open doorway. As he moved close enough to truly see her, closer than he’d been in weeks, his heart gave a painful twist. She looked terrible.

Beautiful, of course, as always, but not herself. Her eyes appeared bloodshot and a little too wide, as if Nimue was fighting to keep them open. Ringed with shadows, they gazed out at him from a face almost deathly pale, with even her lips missing their usual bloom. She faced him with a rigid stance, hands fisted at her sides and her chin jutting forward at such an angle it might have been painful. Watching her, Lancelot had the impression of a bowstring drawn to its limit, right before it must be released or snap in two.

There was something in those eyes, something he couldn’t quite identify, but in the next moment the spell was broken when she spoke again. “It’s time.” He understood the words and he recognized her voice, but somehow it didn’t seem real.

Still, he would not make this harder for her than it needed to be. Lancelot nodded back to her.

“Nimue?” a voice called in the corridor.

A second later, Arthur ducked into the cell behind Nimue. His eyes darted between the two of them, and then he raised a hand to her shoulder, murmuring “I told you someone else can do this. Why don’t you—”

“No, I’ll do it. It’s my responsibility” she replied stiffly, her eyes never leaving Lancelot’s face.

A beat passed and he understood. Arthur was offering to have someone else be her executioner, but Nimue was insisting on doing it herself. Perhaps she would even cut off his head with his own blade. The irony was not lost on Lancelot, and the macabre thought crossed his mind that at least he’d taught her proper edge alignment so she could make it quick.

Buried somewhere under his studied numbness was a howling ache, a space filling with pain as the seconds passed, but Lancelot focused on Nimue’s face and merely nodded again.

“Come” she said, turning on her heel and sweeping from the cell.

Lancelot glanced at Arthur and then followed her outside. At the end of the passageway, he emerged into the sun and was greeted with a thick carpet of tiny yellow flowers. The Creeping Jenny that had so delighted Amvri seemed to have completely overtaken this part of the wood, spreading out between the trees and climbing over every stone, shining up from the ground like a second sun. Lancelot wondered if he would see Amvri again and felt the burning pain at his center swell with loss. He kept walking.

A little farther on, they came to a shallow trench that appeared to be freshly-dug, with piles of earth tossed haphazardly aside. Lancelot was confused at first, but as they approached and then crossed over the trench, he realized it led directly from the stream at the foot of the hill. Arthur had taken his advice for protecting against fire, and had started the irrigation ditch the same day.

 _At least that’s one way I’ve helped to keep the Fey safe,_ he thought. _And my death will help protect them, as well._ It was some small consolation, and the ache at his center eased slightly.

They were nearing the amphitheater again now, the same place where the trial had been held and where Paryaat had first attacked them, and the buzzing hum of hundreds of voices rose from beyond the trees. Nimue still walked before him while Arthur walked behind, and Lancelot simply placed one foot in front of the other, committing all of his willpower to drowning out the grief eating him from the inside out. _Only a few more minutes. Just a little longer._

Nimue stopped so abruptly that he nearly tripped over her, and Arthur too stumbled to catch himself. Turning, she met Lancelot’s eyes. “Would you like to pray?”

He stared at her. “Pray?”

She nodded, watching him with eyes still just too wide to be comfortable. Her pale lips had thinned to a sharp line. She waited.

 _Pray? To whom?_ Of course it had occurred to him to pray to the Christian God, but what would he say? _I’m sorry I flouted your commandments when I pretended to believe in you, and I’m sorry that I’ve turned my back on you since then. Let me die without pain._ No, if that God existed, He surely would not want to hear from the Weeping Monk. _So who, then? The Hidden?_ They might let him grow a trifling weed to please a child, but they could hardly be happy to hear from the man who had burned their lands and slaughtered their people.

“No, thank you,” he responded, and to his surprise, Nimue’s eyes narrowed.

“I think you should pray,” she growled, sharpening each syllable to a point.

Again, Lancelot stared. It made no sense, but her intention at least was quite clear, so this time he answered “All right.”

Nimue’s face relaxed slightly. From behind him came Arthur’s voice, tinged with a question and a warning: “Nimue?”

“It’s fine, Arthur. I’m taking Lancelot to pray. Wait here.”

The man-blood’s face was painted with suspicion, but he merely bowed his head and obeyed. Gesturing again to Lancelot to follow, Nimue turned right and set off toward another of the huge hills that surrounded the Yellow Wood.

They had walked in silence for several minutes when Lancelot noticed that Nimue’s pace had quickened and she kept glancing side to side as if looking for something. Or someone. Before them loomed the tree-covered hill, its base a jumbled pile of broken limestone from some ancient landslide. Reaching the uneven rockface, Nimue turned again and began moving parallel to the hill, leading Lancelot into a narrow crevasse between the boulders.

Though it had been obvious from her strange question that the praying idea was a ruse, Lancelot grew more and more uneasy with their path. What was she doing, truly?

Up ahead, a curtain of hanging ivy blocked their path, but Nimue ducked through it without looking back. With a single nervous glance over his shoulder, Lancelot followed her through the ivy.

His eyes had not yet adjusted to the sudden darkness when two soft, heavy weights slammed into his midsection, squeezing him tightly and babbling with excitement. Lancelot glanced down and saw Percival and Amvri grinning up at him, both hugging him and chattering away. The pain in his heart morphed into something else, and he found himself suddenly blinking back tears as he smiled back at them.

“Be quiet!” hissed Nimue. “Do you want everyone in the Wood to hear us?”

The children immediately dropped their voices into whisper-yells, still nearly impossible to understand between Amvri’s unfamiliar language and Percival’s rapid questions: “Lancelot, could you see the fire from your cell? It was huge! The Red Spear was really angry, you should have seen her face before Arthur talked her down….”

Amvri was waving something in his face, pointing to it with her other hand and appearing to describe what it was. As he focused on the object, Lancelot realized it was a bracelet woven from some of her yellow flowers. He inhaled their scent. _And chamomile. And lemon balm._

He glanced at Nimue, who stood watching them, still with that strained, unfamiliar look on her face.

She had brought them to say goodbye.

The lump in his throat returned, and Lancelot turned his eyes to Percival. “May I have a moment with Amvri?” His phrasing or perhaps his tone suddenly sobered the boy, and Percival nodded and backed away. Lancelot knelt.

Amvri studied him with her dark eyes, now serious. He found her difficult to read without her sunny smile, but she didn’t seem upset. Holding out the bracelet, she gestured to him to raise his hand. Lancelot remained absolutely still while she fastened it to his wrist, drawing on the calming scent of the herbs to keep from trembling.

When she was done, Amvri again met his eyes and gave a small smile. “Born in the dawn” she murmured, struggling slightly with the sounds.

He squeezed her hand. “To pass in the twilight.”

The child’s smile broadened, then she stepped back. As if launched from a spring, Percival darted forward and immediately began chattering again. “ _Finally_ it’s my turn. And you’re already kneeling, so that’s good. Nimue, are you sure I can’t borrow the sword? I’m only going to—”

“I said _no_ , Percival. You’ll get along just fine with your knife.”

“But it’s not the same! You said—”

“We are out of time! Any minute, Arthur will come looking for us. _Hurry up._ ”

“Fine” the boy grumbled, drawing his knife from his belt. He faced Lancelot, the two nearly eye-to-eye. A memory suddenly rose in the young man’s mind of another time he had knelt, waiting for death, when Percival had sprung from hiding and attacked the Trinity Guard in an effort to defend him. He looked the child in the eye and wondered if he was remembering it, too.

A long moment of silence passed. Then, Percival spoke: “A Knight of the Fey is one with the land….”

The words triggered another memory of a story the boy had told over and over on their journey North….

“.... as enduring as the Great River, and as true as Arawn’s bow.”

Lancelot swallowed. Percival’s face was deadly serious.

“We are born in the dawn….”

The child watched him expectantly. Perhaps he was young and naive and on some level this was just a game to him, but in that moment Percival was completely sincere. Lancelot returned his gaze with that same gravity, willing his voice into calmness for his reply.

“To pass in the twilight.”

The spell broke, and Percival’s face split into a wide grin again. “Arise, Sir Lancelot,” he said, sounding very pleased with himself.

Lancelot stood, and the two children again barreled into him, squeezing so hard it was almost painful. He noticed that neither of them could bring themselves to say “Goodbye,” and found he was almost grateful. He truly might not be able to go to his execution with grace if they did.

After another moment, Nimue again stepped forward. “All right, you two, get back quickly. And for the gods’ sake don’t get caught!”

Amvri gave Lancelot one more hug before she ran through the hanging ivy, her sniffle barely audible as she stumbled up the slope. Percival too risked one last look at his friend, unable to hide the tears that now rimmed his eyes. Then he too darted out into the Autumn sun.

Lancelot stared after them a moment as the ivy came to a rest and the sounds of their footfalls faded, then turned around to find Nimue holding out a travel pack. He stared at her, dumbly, and she immediately began rattling off what sounded like a prepared speech: “The passageway is just through here. It’ll be a bit tight for you in some places so watch your head and don’t get stuck. The horse paddock is eighty paces to the left as you come out, so you’ll—”

“Nimue?”

She ignored him and kept talking. “—need to find cover and then wait until the Viking guard changes so you can—”

“Nimue.”

This time, she fell silent. In the dim light, Lancelot could see and feel her restlessness as she avoided his eye. “What are you doing?”

Her temper flared. “What do you mean ‘what am I doing?’ I’m saving your life, _again_ , so you’re welcome. Now would you please—”

“Arthur said that Paladin patrols have been spotted nearby. Won’t you lose the support of the Tusks if you set me free?”

There was a beat before she responded. “That’s _my_ problem, not yours.”

“Well, apparently I’m a Knight of the Fey now, so it is my problem if it endangers the Fey.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

She glared at him, and it seemed that her tight control was beginning to fray. Her voice wavered slightly when she spoke again.

“Lancelot, please. Just go.”

His name on her lips hurt him. “Go where? And to do what?”

“To _live!”_ Nimue cried, taking a step toward him with her hand outstretched, pleading. “Go anywhere, and live! Any fool can die, but living takes imagination!”

She stood directly in front of him now, looking up into his face. Lancelot had forgotten how much shorter Nimue was than he, as she always dominated his vision whenever he was around her. Anger and sorrow, desperation and command, rigidity and an unbearable softness…. She was all of them at once and it overwhelmed him, having her full powers turned on him together. He wanted to do as she ordered, to do anything she asked. Live, die, whatever Nimue wanted.

But what Nimue wanted more than anything was for the Fey to survive. And even she had acknowledged that it was the Sword of Power that had first united the clans. Now they were fractured, and even with her own considerable power, she would not be able to keep them together and safe if she betrayed them now. For him.

Keeping his voice steady, Lancelot whispered, “You’re right. And you are no fool, Nimue. You know that for the Fey to live, you must have imagination. Imagine, then, what will happen if I escape and they realize it was you.”

He waited, watching her face as the scenes of certain carnage played in her mind. She fought them, he could tell, but in a moment her shoulders sagged as the reality of the situation made itself felt. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and Lancelot felt his own resolve slipping.

“When you have…. When I am gone, you can focus on keeping the Fey safe from the Red Paladins. It’s the right thing to do.”

Nimue shook her head, tears sliding down her cheeks now. “There has to be another way.”

Gods, how he wanted to touch her face. Everything in him now was screaming at him to _live, LIVE_ if it meant the hope of one day holding her, hearing her laugh, seeing her smile at him. _Live, you fool! Look at what you would leave behind!_

But he only stood there, trying to master his mutinous thoughts. Nimue wept, and Lancelot realized that Arthur and perhaps others would be searching for them soon. They needed to return. And be done with it.

Raising a trembling hand, he gently pulled her chin up to face him. She was achingly beautiful.

“Let me do this for you, Nimue. This is how I can serve the Fey.” He smiled slightly. “In fact, as a Knight of the Fey, Percival would say it is my duty.”

“To die?”

“If that’s what it takes to keep them safe, aye.”

She held his eyes, anger and pain still warring in her expression. The color had returned to her face in her fury, and her lips stood out now even in the deep shadows of their hiding place. Lancelot’s gaze was drawn to them, and a slight shiver passed from his hand to where he still held her chin.

Then, something sparked in her eyes and she drew back. Cold regret coiled in Lancelot’s stomach, his moment of peace and surety broken. Nimue turned away from him and her voice came again, once more in that frigid, queenly tone. “You’re right. You can serve the Fey and the Weeping Monk must see justice for us to survive. Thank you for reminding me.”

Her words fell like daggers, even though it was what he wanted, exactly what she should say. She was making the hard choices that leaders had to make, especially a leader of an endangered people. It was what made her so extraordinary.

But still, he had wanted that last smile. That laugh. Maybe more.

Nimue turned back to him, composed now. “Do you still need a moment to pray?”

 _No. Oh no, let’s get this over with._ He shook his head.

She nodded back to him. “Very well then, let’s go.”

The packed amphitheater seethed with anticipation as Nimue, Lancelot, and Arthur made their way down to the stone table. On every side, Fey leaned or fluttered out to gain a view of the condemned man. Even the Vikings, the Red Spear and Nimue’s friend Pym among them, had secured a seat to watch the execution of the Weeping Monk. Whispers rippled around the crowd, some fearful, some sympathetic, and a few with snickering cruelty. Lancelot kept his eyes on Nimue’s back, watching her hair sway from side to side as she strode purposefully to the center of the space.

Stepping before the round table, she spun on her heel and looked out at the assembled Fey, her expression regal and placid. As the murmurs of the crowd died down, Nimue placed a hand on the sword hilt at her waist. Lancelot’s sword. Which she would use to execute him in just minutes.

He craved the numbness that had so often eased his most difficult days, but instead, he heard only Father Carden’s voice snarling with delight: _They will steal your breath, steal your blood, destroy your mind, and tear your heart. You will be abandoned by the Almighty just as you were abandoned by that Fey whore who whelped you, only this time there will be nowhere to turn._

To think the old man had been proven right. Lancelot felt bile rise in his throat, but he pushed it down, reminding himself that in a life where few decisions had been his alone, this was his choice. It had been his choice to save Percival, and he did not regret it. His choice to save Nimue, to let Father Dubric baptize him, to stay his hand rather than kill the Vikings. And finally, to die to save the Fey. These were Lancelot’s choices, and for once, he knew with certainty that they were the right ones.

Finally, the crowd quieted, and Nimue raised her voice to them. “Justice. That is what our law demands, what all the Fey must demand if we are to survive. I promised you that I would be your shield, and that by the gods, I shall be your sword. Today, I come before you to renew that vow.”

Some cheered, but with his sensitive hearing, Lancelot heard others grumbling about the loss of the Sword of Power. “That promise was made on a weapon worthy of it,” one Moonwing muttered, fixing Nimue with a hawkish glare. If she heard them, she gave no indication.

“For his crimes, the Fey have demanded from the Weeping Monk his flesh, his tears, his blood, and his life.” A metallic ringing echoed in the air as she drew his sword from its sheath and held it high. “As the Fey Queen, I now deliver you this justice!” She turned to Lancelot and he risked a last glance into her eyes.

She was there, he could see it. The strained mask was gone. But the gaze that returned his was one of icy clarity, without doubt or question. Nimue had made her choice.

“Kneel.”

Time slowed to a crawl as Lancelot lowered himself to the stone floor, first with one knee, then the other. His senses turned sluggish and he stared at Nimue as if at the end of a long tunnel. In his mind, he cradled the fresh memory of his fingertips on her chin, tears clinging to her eyelashes and her sweet breath puffing against his face. It would have to be enough.

“Do you wish to say anything?” Her voice was softer now, though she gripped his sword more tightly than ever.

 _Take care of Percival and Amvri. Be happy, and find someone to love. Forgive me._ The thoughts slipped through his mind, but the only thing that fell from his mouth was “I am sorry.”

Silence reigned. It seemed that no one dared breathe, waiting for the end. Nimue took a step forward. “Bow your head.”

For one last moment, Lancelot watched her face, then he lowered his head. Relaxing the tension in his shoulders, he stretched out his neck and remembered not to tuck his chin, presenting her with a perfect target that she could sever in a single stroke. An easy cut with no resistance, just like they had practiced.

The moment stretched and Lancelot waited, knowing she would need to gather herself so she could take careful aim. He wondered briefly if he would feel the bite of the blade, but then dismissed it. Nimue would make it quick. And an instant of pain no longer mattered at this point. There was only the darkness beyond and whatever vengeful deity awaited with his eternal punishment. Better to consider that darkness now, and leave behind the light before it could leave him.

An inhalation went up from the crowd as Nimue raised her sword.

And Lancelot did feel the blade.

But not on his neck. Instead, the flat of the blade gently caressed his right shoulder. Then his left.

He heard Nimue’s voice, so softly now that it seemed they were the only two people in the world. “A Knight of the Fey is one with the land, as enduring as the Great River, and as true as Arawn’s bow.”

Lancelot’s heart slammed against his ribs in wild confusion.

“We are born in the dawn….”

He looked up. Radiant, Nimue’s gaze held him with pride, determination, and pleading. Begging him not to refuse. To trust her.

He found his voice. “To pass in the twilight.”

She smiled, and he remembered again all the reasons why he wanted to live.

Raising her own voice, Nimue lowered the sword and stepped back. “Rise, Sir Lancelot of the Fey…. the Weeping Knight.”

A roar of pure rage erupted from the Fey as Lancelot stood. In seconds, they had become a mob, a mass of violent appetites and betrayed hopes. As Tusks, Snakes, Moonwings, and others surged forward, Lancelot was already reaching into the earth, searching for ash roots to propel upward in their defense. Arthur, Kaze, and a handful of Vikings had darted ahead of them in an effort to block the mutinous Fey, but it was obvious they would last mere seconds against so many. Lancelot found the ash trees and took hold of their roots.

 _“SILENCE!”_ Nimue bellowed over the din. Her voice was almost unrecognizable, as it seemed impossibly loud and somehow accompanied by other, older, deeper voices. Lancelot turned to find her surrounded by a thick hedge of thorns that had twisted up from the floor, her eyes blazing with that same icy fury that seemed so unlike herself and yet so uniquely Nimue.

The Fey quieted somewhat, but their rebellious intent still hung in the air and murmurs of outrage still smoldered and erupted from every corner.

“The Weeping Monk is dead, but the Weeping Knight shall serve the Fey all his life, with his flesh, his tears, and his blood.” She pointed the sword toward the Moonwings. “His flesh shall be your defense against the Red Paladins….” The sword swung to the Fauns. “.... and his tears shall be shed for your sorrows.” At last, Nimue turned the sword on the Tusks, where Paryaat’s livid face stood out just beyond the line of Vikings holding them back. “If necessary, his blood shall be spilled for your protection. If he must die, it will be so that the Fey can survive.”

Still the crowd heaved with anger. Beneath their feet, the earth shook as Nimue’s thorns grew higher, and she shouted “This is my decree! This is your justice!”

Low grumbles rippled around the mob, and then Paryaat snarled “We recognize no queen who betrays her own people!” Shouts of support echoed from those surrounding him, and their leader’s face broke into a satisfied grin. “The Tusks have no queen! And this one has no Sword of Power. She has only pride, and little plants that burn just as well as bodies.”

He was speaking to the rest of the Fey now, and it seemed they were listening. “She promised to defend us with the sword of our ancestors, but where is it? WHERE IS THE SWORD?”

Their rage swelled again and the crowd surged forward, chanting “NO SWORD, NO QUEEN!” In an instant, Lancelot was at Nimue’s side behind the rising wall of thorns, his mind rapidly mapping escape routes and tactics for fighting off hundreds of opponents without killing anyone. Commuting his sentence had clearly been a mistake, but they could deal with that later, after she was safe.

His hand touched her elbow and Nimue flinched, her eyes darting to him. In that moment he saw the devastation on her face. Nimue had truly believed her plan would work. But now her worst fears were realized: the Fey would not follow her without the Sword of Power. Now they might split into factions, and they could not defend against the Red Paladins if they did. Had she really thrown it all away for him?

Lancelot was about to draw her away into safety when a deep howling echoed across the Yellow Wood. Between Nimue and the mob, a pillar of wind and smoke appeared, whirling in an ominous black spiral. Then, the air split open like jaws and a dark figure materialized before them, veiled in black. Behind the ghostly figure, Fey gasped and screamed.

Slowly, the veiled creature raised its hand. A sword unlike any Lancelot had ever seen shone in the dying sunlight, with an edge sharper than any mortal hand could fashion and a blade inlaid with runes that glowed like brimstone. Over the shouts and cries of the terrified Fey, Lancelot could hear the triumphant song of the Hidden, their voices laced with greed as they beheld again what could only be the Devil’s Tooth, the Sword of Power.

 _“Your sword, Fey Queen,”_ the figure hissed in a chilling, otherworldly voice.

An irrational fear suddenly overcame Lancelot, and he almost reached out to stop Nimue from taking the sword. But she had already grasped its hilt. The amphitheater fell deathly silent as Nimue caressed the Sword of Power, a small smile spreading over her face. A loud _CLANG_ echoed in the space, and Lancelot realized she had dropped his sword so she could bring both hands to her own. He bent quickly to retrieve it, still tensed for a fight.

Nimue still stared at her sword, as if she had forgotten completely the violent mob that was prepared to kill her. Then, the smile vanished from her face and she raised the Sword of Power over her head, her eyes trained on Paryaat. “No sword, no queen?” she purred in a voice of terrifying coldness. “It seems the Sword of Power agrees.”

As the tangle of thorns receded before her, she took a step forward and the Tusk visibly flinched. Ignoring him, Nimue raised her head to the mass of Fey and called out to them: “I renew my vow to be your sword, and now the Weeping Knight shall be your shield! Queen or not, I swear I shall not rest until all our people are free to live in peace!” Her eyes swept around the crowd and then returned to the Tusks. “Will you help us? Or will you face our enemies alone?”

A long beat passed, and Paryaat continued to glare at Nimue. Lancelot noticed that the other Tusks around him had grown suddenly restless, their eyes darting from him to Nimue and over to the figure in black, as if waiting for a signal. Around the auditorium, the other Fey too seemed to be waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Suddenly, another Tusk pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Lancelot squeezed his own sword, preparing for an attack, but then he realized the newcomer was G’rej, the Tusk leader whom Paryaat had challenged for command of the clan. The one with the more peaceable reputation. All eyes followed him across the space.

He stepped in front of Nimue. Lancelot gripped his sword hilt, ready to spring. Then, G’rej knelt, speaking in a clear and resonant voice. “Hail the Fey Queen.” Another moment passed, then a second Tusk knelt, then a Faun, and suddenly more Fey bowed and murmurs of “Fey Queen!” hummed in the air. In seconds, the entire amphitheater had dropped into a bow, and Lancelot too lowered himself back to his knees. Still, he kept one eye on Nimue and another on the Fey, watching for threats.

Alone in the mass of kneeling Fey stood Paryaat, the fury on his face more pronounced than ever. Defeat had twisted his features into pure hatred, and for a moment Lancelot thought he might remain defiant. But finally, with what looked like great pain, Paryaat bent himself into a stiff bow, muttering “Fey Queen.”

Nimue had won. And the Sword of Power was hers once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORGANA???


End file.
